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OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


ALUMNUS 
BOOK  FUND 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TKUE, 


A     TALE. 


BY 


LADY  GEOKGIASTA  FULLEKTOlSr, 

ATTTHOBBBS     OF     "KLLBN     MIDDLKTOH,"      "LADYBIBD,"     ETC. 


THREE  VOLUMES  IN  ONE. 


NEW   YORK: 
D.      APPLETON      AND      COMPANY, 

448   A  445   BROADWAY. 
1865. 


ni 


IN  the  following  tale,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  coun- 
tries, and  amidst  persons,  whose  language  was  not  our  own, 
there  has  been  no  attempt  to  adopt  the  phraseology  of  the 
epoch  over  which  these  events  extend.  There  did  not  seem 
any  particular  object  in  rendering  the  thoughts  and  conver- 
sations of  German  and  French  people  in  the  English  of  the 
eighteenth,  rather  than  of  the  nineteenth,  century. 

Truth  and  fiction  are  closely  blended  in  this  tale,  and  in 
the  Appendix  will  be  found  the  materials  from  whence 
some  of  its  incidents  have  been  drawn — as  also  the  narra- 
tive which  has  furnished  its  ground-wort.  Those  who  are 
sometimes  glad  to  turn  away  for  a  while  from  the  beaten 
roads  of  history,  and  to  tread  the  bye-ways  of  romance — 
who  love  truth  which  resembles  fiction,  and  fiction  which 
follows  closely  in  the  footsteps  of  truth — may,  perhaps, 
find  some  little  interest  in  this  story  of  the  last  century. 

"  Full  of  hope,  and  yet  of  heart-break ; 
Of  the  here,  and  the  hereafter." 

Legend  of  Hiawatha. 

020 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


PAKT  I. 


CHAPTEE    I. 

The  woods  1  0  solemn  are  the  boundless  woods 

Of  the  great  western  world  when  day  declines; 
And  louder  sounds  the  roll  of  distant  floods, 

More  deep  the  rustling  of  the  ancient  pines, 
When  dimness  gathers  on  the  stilly  air, 

And  mystery  seems  on  every  leaf  to  brood : 
Awful  it  is  for  human  heart  to  bear 

The  weight  and  burthen  of  the  solitude. 

Mrs.  ZTemans. 

White  she  is  as  Lily  of  June, 
And  beauteous  as  the  silver  moon, 
When  out  of  sight  the  clouds  are  driven, 
And  she  is  left  alone  in  heaven. 
*  *  *  *  * 

I  did  not  speak— I  saw  her  face : 
Her  face !  it  was  enough  for  me ! 
I  turned  about  and  heard  her  cry, 
"  O  misery  I    O  misery  I " 


IN  the  earlier  part  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, through  one  of  the  primeval  for- 
ests of  the  New  World,  northward  of 
the  region  which  the  French  colonists 
called  the  Eden  of  Louisiana,  a  man 
was  walking  one  evening  with  his  gun 
on  his  shoulder,  followexi  by  two  dogs 
of  European  breed,  a  spaniel  and  a 
bloodhound.  The  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  were  gilding  the  vast  sea  of  flow- 
ers lying  to  his  right  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  wood  through  which  he  was  mak- 
ing his  way,  impeded  every  moment 
by  the  cords  of  the  slender  liana  and 
entangled  garlands  of  Spanish  moss. 
The  firmness  of  his  step,  the  briskness 
of  his  movements,  the  vigour  of  his 
frame,  his  keen  eye  and  manly  bearing, 


Wordsworth. 

and  above  all  the  steady  perseverance 
with  which  he  pursued  the  path  he 
had  chosen,  and  forced  his  way  through 
all  obstacles,  indicated  a  physical  and 
moral  temperament  well  fitted  to  cope 
with  the  many  difficulties  inherent  to 
the  life  of  a  settler  in  the  Nouvelle 
France. 

Henri  d'Auban  had  been  a  dweller 
in  many  lands — had  lived  in  camps 
and  in  courts,  and  held  intercourse 
with  persons  of  every  rank  in  moat  of 
the  great  cities  of  Europe.  He  was 
thirty-five  years  of  age  at  the  time  this 
story  opens,  and  had  been  in  America 
about  four  years.  Brittany  was  his  na- 
tive country ;  his  parental  home  a  small 
castle  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff  overlook- 


6 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


ing  one  of  the  wildest  shores  of  that 
rude  coast.  The  sea-beach  had  been 
his  playground;  its  weeds,  its  shells, 
its  breaking  waves,  his  toys ;  the  bound- 
less expanse  of  the  ocean  and  its  great 
ceaseless  voice,  the  endless  theme  of 
his  secret  musings ;  and  the  pious  le- 
gends of  the  Armorican  race,  the  nur- 
sery tales  he  had  heard  from  his  moth- 
er's lips.  Brittany,  like  Scotland,  is 
"  a  meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child,"  and 
her  bold  peasantry  have  retained  to 
this  day  very  much  of  the  religious 
spirit  of  their  forefathers.  Early  in 
life  Henri  d'Auban  lost  both  his  par- 
ents— the  small-pox,  the  plague  of  that 
epoch  in  France,  having  carried  them 
both  off  within  a  few  days  of  each  other. 
He  saw  them  buried  in  the  little  church- 
yard of  Keir  Anna,  and  was  placed 
soon  after  by  some  of  his  relations  at 
the  college  of  Vannes,  where  he  re- 
mained several  years. 

On  leaving  it  he  began  life  with 
many  friends,  much  youthful  ambition, 
and  very  little  fortune.  Through  the 
interest  of  a  great-uncle,  who  had  been 
a  distinguished  officer  in  Marshal  Tu- 
renne's  army,  he  was  appointed  mili- 
tary attache"  to  the  French  Embassy 
at  Vienna,  and  served  as  volunteer  in 
some  of  the  Austrian  campaigns  against 
the  Turks.  He  visited  also  in  the  Am- 
bassador's service  several  of  the  smaller 
courts  of  Germany,  and  was  sent  on 
a  secret  mission  to  Italy.  On  his  way 
through  Switzerland  he  accidentally 
made  acquaintance  with  General  Le- 
fort,  the  Czar  of  Muscovy's  confidential 
friend  and  admirer.  That  able  man 
was  not  long  in  discovering  the  more 
than  ordinary  abilities  of  the  young 
Breton  gentilhomme.  By  his  advice, 
and  through  his  interest,  Henry  d'Au- 
ban entered  the  Russian  service,  ad- 
vanced rapidly  from  post  to  post,  and 
was  often  favourably  noticed  by  Peter 
the  Great.  He  seemed  as  likely  to  at- 
tain a  high  position  at  that  monarch's 


court  as  any  foreigner  in  his  service. 
His  knowledge  of  military  science,  and 
particularly  of  engineering,  having  at- 
tracted the  sovereign's  attention  on 
several  occasions  when  he  had  accom- 
panied General  Lefort  on  visits  of  mili- 
tary inspection,  the  command  of  a  regi- 
ment and  the  title  of  Colonel  were 
bestowed  upon  him.  But  just  as  his 
prospects  appeared  most  brilliant,  and 
his  favour  with  the  Emperor  was  visi- 
bly increasing,  he  secretly  left  Rus- 
sia and  returned  to  France.  Secrecy 
was  a  necessary  condition  of  depart- 
ure in  the  case  of  foreigners  in  the 
Czar's  service.  However  high  in  his 
favour,  and  indeed  by  reason  of  that 
favour  they  were  no  longer  free  agents 
— his  most  valued  servants  being  only 
privileged,  serfs,  bound  to  his  domin- 
ions by  laws  which  could  only  be  evad- 
ed by  flight — permission  was  hardly 
ever  obtained  for  a  withdrawal,  which 
was  considered  as  a  sort  of  treason. 

Colonel  d'Auban's  abandonment  of 
the  Russian  service  excited  the  surprise 
of  his  friends.  Some  painful  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  connected  with  the  reso- 
lution which  had  cut  short  his  career. 
He  disliked  to  be  questioned  on  the 
subject,  and  evasive  answers  generally 
put  a  stop  to  such  inquiries.  He  had, 
however,  reached  an  age  when  it  is 
difficult  to  enter  on  a  new  career ;  when 
old  associations  on  the  one  hand,  and 
youthful  competitors  on  the  other, 
stand  in  the  way  of  a  fresh  start  in 
life.  After  six  or  seven  years'  absence 
from  his  country,  he  scarcely  felt  at 
home  in  France.  His  acquaintances 
thought  him  changed.  The  eager  am- 
bitious youth  had  become  a  quiet 
thoughtful  man.  But  if  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  character  was  subdued,  its  en- 
ergy was  in  no  wise  impaired.  Youth- 
ful enthusiasm,  in  some  natures,  simply 
evaporates  and  leaves  nothing  behind 
it  but  frivolity ;  in  others,  it  condenses 
and  becomes  earnestness. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


At  this  turning  moment  one  of  the 
insignificant  circumstances  which  often 
influence  a  person's  whole  destiny  di- 
rected Colonel  d'Aubari's  thoughts  to 
the  New  World.  In  Europe,  and  es- 
pecially in  France,  a  perfect  fever  of 
excitement  was  raging  on  the  subject 
of  colonization.  The  rich  territories 
on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  seemed 
a  promised  land  to  speculators  of  all 
classes  and  nations.  The  eagerness 
with  which  Law's  system  was  hailed  in 
Paris,  and  the  avidity  which  sought  to 
secure  a  share  in  the  fabulous  prospects 
of  wealth  held  out  to  settlers  in  the 
new  France,  had  never  known  a  paral- 
lel. This  fever  was  at  its  height  when 
one  day  the  ex-favourite  of  the  Czar 
happened  to  meet  in  the  Luxembourg 
gardens  an  old  school-fellow,  who,  the 
instant  he  recognized  his  comrade  at 
Vannes,  threw  himself  into  his  arms, 
and  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  joyful 
exclamations.  This  was  the  Vicomte 
de  Harlay,  a  wealthy,  good-natured, 
eccentric  Parisian,  who  had  employed 
his  time,  his  wit,  and  his  means,  since 
he  had  come  of  age,  in  committing 
follies,  wasting  money,  and  doing  kind- 
nesses. He  had  already  managed  to 
get  rid  of  one  large  fortune;  but  for- 
tune seemed  to  have  a  fancy  for  this 
spendthrift  son  of  hers,  and  had  re- 
cent^ bestowed  upon  him,  through 
the  death  of  a  relative,  a  large  estate, 
which  he  seemed  bent  upon  running 
through  with  equal  speed. 

"  My  dear  d'Auban  I  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you  !  Are  you  come  on  a  mis- 
sion from  the  polar  bears  ?  or  has  the 
Czar  named  you  his  Ambassador  in 
Paris?" 

"  I  have  left  the  Russian  service." 

"  You  don't  say  so  1  Why  people 
declared  you  were  going  to  cut  out 
Lefort  and  Gordon.  Have  you  made 
your  fortune,  dear  friend  ? " 

D'Auban  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 
"  A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss." 


"Do  you  wish  to  make  your  for- 
tune ? " 

"  I  should  have  no  objection." 

"  What  are  you  doing,  or  wishing  to 
do?" 

"  I  am  looking  out  for  some  employ- 
ment. A  small  diplomatic  post  was 
offered  to  me  some  time  ago,  but  it 
would  not  have  suited  me  at  all.  I 
wish  I  could  get  a  consulship.  I  want 
hard  work,  and  plenty  of  it.  What  an 
extraordinary  being  you  must  think 
me." 

"  Have  you  any  thing  else  in  view  at 
present?"  inquired  De  Harlay,  too 
eagerly  bent  on  an  idea  of  his  own  to 
notice  his  friend's  last  observation. 

"No.  When  a  person  has  thrown 
himself  out  of  the  beaten  track,  and 
then  not  pursued  the  path  he  had 
struck  out,  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  re- 
trace his  steps.  Every  road  seems  shut 
to  him." 

"  But  don't  return  to  the  beaten  track 
— to  the  old  road.  Come  with  me  to 
the  new  France.  My  cousin  M.  d'Ar- 
tagnan  is  commandant  of  the  troops 
at  New  Orleans,  and  has  unbounded 
influence  with  the  governor,  M.  Perrier, 
and  with  the  Company.  I  will  intro- 
duce you  to  him.  I  know  he  wants 
men  like  you  to  come  out  and  redeem 
the  character  of  the  colony,  which  is 
overrun  with  scamps  of  every  descrip- 
tion." 

"Amongst  whom  one  might  easily 
run  the  risk  of  being  reckoned,"  said 
d'Auban,  laughing. 

"Nonsense,"  cried  his  friend.  "I 
am  turning  emigrant  myself,  and  have 
just  obtained  a  magnificent  concession 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Fort  St.. Louis, 
and  the  village  of  St.  Francois." 

"You!  And  what  on  earth  can 
have  put  such  a  fancy  in  your  head.? " 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  am  weary  of  civ- 
ilization—tired to  death  of  Paris- 
worn  out  with  the  importunities  of  my 
relations,  who  want  me  to  marry.  I 


8 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


cannot  picture  to  myself  any  thing 
more  delightful  than  to  turn  one's  back, 
for  a  few  years,  on  the  world,  and  one- 
self into  a  hermit,  especially  with  so 
agreeable  a  companion  as  M.  le  Colonel 
d'Auban.  But  really,  I  am  quite  in 
earnest.  Whair  could  you  do  better 
than  emigrate  ?  A  man  of  your  philo- 
sophical turn  of  mind  would  be  inter- 
ested in  studying  the  aspect  of  the 
New  World.  If  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  you  might  return  at  the  end  of 
a  year  and  write  a  book  of  travels.  I 
assure  you  it  is  not  a  bad  offer  I  make 
you.  I  have  considerable  interest  in 
the  Rue  Quincampoix.  I  was  invited 
to  little  Mdlle.  Law's  ball  the  other 
day,  and  had  the  honour  of  dancing  a 
minuet  with  her.  I  shall  write  a  placet 
to  the  young  lady,  begging  of  her  to 
obtain  from  Monsieur  son  Pere  a  con- 
cession for  a  friend  of  mine.  It  would 
be  hard  if  I  could  not  help  a  friend  to 
a  fortune  when  Laplace,  my  valet — you 
remember  him,  don't  you  ? — has  made 
such  good  use  of  our  visits  to  the  Paris 
Eldorado  that  the  rogue  has  set  up  his 
carriage.  He  was  good  enough  when 
he  met  me  trudging  along  in  the  mud 
on  a  rainy  day  to  offer  me  a  lift.  It  is 
evident  the  world  is  turned  upside 
down,  on  this  side  of  the  globe  at 
least,  and  we  may  as  well  go  and  take 
a  look  at  the  revers  de  la  medaille.  Well, 
what  do  you  say  to  my  proposal  ? " 

"  That  it  is  an  exceedingly  kind  one, 
De  Harlay.  But  I  have  no  wish  to 
speculate,  or,  I  will  own  the  truth,  to 
be  considered  as  an  adventurer.  That 
you,  with  your  wealth,  and  in  your  po- 
sition, should  emigrate,  can  be  consid- 
ered at  the  worst  but  as  an  act  of  folly. 
It  would  be  different  with  me." 

"Well,  I  do  not  see  why  the  new 
France  is  to  be  made  over  to  the  refuse 
of  the  old  one.  I  see  in  your  scruples, 
my  dear  friend,  vestiges  of  that  imprac- 
ticability for  which  you  were  noted  at 
College.  But  just  think  over  the 


question.  Nobody  asks  you  to  specu- 
late. For  a  sum  not  worth  speaking 
of  you  can  obtain  a  grant  of  land  in  a 
desert,  and  it  will  depend  on  your  own 
ability  or  activity  whether  it  brings 
you  wealth  or  not.  There  is  nothing 
in  this,  I  should  think,  that  can  offend 
the  most  scrupulous  delicacy." 

"  Can  you  allow  me  time  to  reflect  ? " 
"Certainly.  I  do  not  sail  for  six 
weeks.  It  is  amusing  in  the  mean  time 
to  hear  the  ladies  lamenting  over  my 
departure,  and  shuddering  at  the  dan- 
gers I  am  to  run  in  those  wild  regions, 
where,  poor  dears,  they  are  dying  to 
go  themselves,  and  I  fancy  some  of 
them  believe  that  golden  apples  hang 
on  the  trees,  and  might  be  had  for  the 
trouble  of  gathering  them,  if  only  le 
Ion  Monsieur  Law  would  let  them  into 
the  secret.  Have  you  seen  the  line  of 
carriages  up  to  his  house  ?  It  is  the 
very  Court  of  Mammon.  Duchesses 
and  marchionesses  jostle  each  other 
and  quarrel  on  the  staircase  for  shares, 
that  is  when  they  are  happy  enough  to 
get  in,  which  is  not  always  the  case. 
Madame  de  la  Fere  ordered  her  coach- 
man to  drive  her  chariot  into  the  gut- 
ter and  overturn  it  opposite  to  his 
door.*  Then  she  screamed  with  all  her 
might,  hoping  the  divinity  would  ap- 
pear. But  the  wily  Scotchman  was 
up  to  the  trick,  and  ate  his  breakfast 
without  stirring.  We  who  were  in 
his  room  almost  died  of  laughing. 
Well,  good-bye,  my  dear  Colonel.  When 
you  have  made  up  your  mind  let  me 
know,  that  I  may  bespeak  for  you  in 
time  a  berth  in  the  Jean  Bart  and  a 
concession  in  the  New  World." 

The  Yicomte  de  Harlay  walked 
away,  and  d'Auban  paced  for  a  long 
time  the  alleys  of  the  Luxembourg, 
revolving  in  his  mind  the  ideas  sug- 
gested by  this  conversation.  "  After 
so  many  doubts,  so  many  projects 
which  have  ended  in  nothing,  how 


*  A  fact. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


9 


singular  it  would  be,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "if  a  casual  meeting  with  this 
scatter-brained  friend  of  mine  should 
end  in  determining  the  future  course 
of  my  life."  He  had  never  thought  of 
emigrating  to  th£  New  "World,  but 
when  he  came  to  consider  it  there  was 
much  in  the  proposal  which  harmo- 
nized with  his  inclinations.  The  scope 
it  afforded  for  enterprise  and  individ- 
ual exertion  was  congenial  to  his 
temper  of  mind.  Above  all,  it  was 
something  definite  to  look  to,  and  only 
those  who  have  experienced  it  know 
what  a  relief  to  some  natures  is  the 
substitution  of  a  definite  prospect  for  a 
wearying  uncertainty.  In  the  evening 
of  that  day  he  called  at  one  of  the  few 
houses  at  which  he  visited — that  of 
M.  d'Orgeville.  He  was  distantly  relat- 
ed to  this  gentleman,  who  held  a  high 
position  amongst  what  was  called  the 
parliamentary  nobility.  His  wife  re- 
ceived every  night  a  chosen  number  of 
friends,  men  of  learning  and  of  letters, 
members  of  the  haute  magistrature, 
dignitaries  of  the  Church,  and  women 
gifted  with  the  talents  for  conversation, 
which  the  ladies  of  that  epoch  so  often 
possessed,  frequented  the  salon  of  the 
Hotel  d'Orgeville,  and  formed  a  society 
little  inferior  in  agreeableness  to  the 
most  celebrated  circles  of  that  day. 

Does  it  not  often  happen,  unaccount- 
ably often,  that  when  the  mind  is  full 
of  a  particular  subject,  what  we  read 
or  what  we  hear  tallies  so  strangely 
with  what  has  occupied  us,  that  it 
seems  as  if  a  mysterious  answer  were 
given  to  our  secret  thoughts  ?  When 
d'Auban  took  his  place  that  evening 
in  the  circle  which  surrounded  the 
mistress  of  the  house,  he  almost  started 
with  surprise  at  hearing  M.  de  Mesme, 
a  distinguished  lawyer  and  scholar, 
say: 

"  I  maintain  that  only  two  sorts  of 
persons  go  to  America,  at  least  to 
Louisiana — adventurers  and  mission- 


aries :  you  would  not  find  in  the  whole 
'colony  a  man  who  is  not  either  an  offi- 
cial, a  priest,  a  soldier,  or  a  scamp." 

"  A  sweeping  assertion  indeed,"  ob- 
served Madame  d'Orgeville.  "  Can  no 
one  here  bring  forward  an  instance  to 
the  contrary?" 

"  The  Vicomte  de  Harlay  has  turned 
concessionist,  and  is  about  to  sail  for 
New  Orleans.  In  which  of  the  four 
classes  he  has  mentioned  would  M.  de 
Mesme  include  him  ? "  This  was  said 
by  a  young  man  who  was  sitting  next 
to  d'Auban. 

"  Exceptions  prove  the  rule.  M.  de 
Harlay's  eccentricities  are  so  well 
known  that  they  baffle  all  calcula- 
tion." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  M.  d'Orgeville, 
"I  cannot  understand  why  men  of 
character  and  ability  do  not  take  more 
interest  in  these  new  colonies,  and  that 
the  objects  of  a  settler  in  that  distant 
part  of  the  world  should  not  be  consid- 
ered worthy  the  attention  of  persons 
who  have  at  heart  not  only  the  making 
of  money,  but  also  the  advancement  of 
civilization." 

"Civilization!"  ejaculated  M.  de 
Mesme,  with  a  sarcastic  smile.  "  What 
a  glorious  idea  the  natives  must  con- 
ceive of  our  civilization  from  the  speci- 
mens we  send  them  from  France ! " 

"Surely,"  exclaimed  young  Blane- 
menil,  d'Auban's  neighbour,  "M.  Per- 
rier,  M.  d'Artagnan,  the  Perd  Saoel  and 
his  companions,  are  not  contemptible 
specimens  of  French  merit  ? " 

"  Officials,  soldiers;  priests,  every  one 
of  them,"  retorted  M.  de  Mesme. 

"  What  I  have  not  yet  heard  of  is  a 
concessionist  a  planter,  an  habitant  who 
is  not  a  mere  speculator  or  a  needy  ad- 
venturer. I  appeal  to  you,  M.  Maret. 
Does  not  your  brother  write  that  the 
conversion  of  the  Indians  would  be 
comparatively  easy  did  not  the  colo- 
nists, by  their  selfish  grasping  conduct 
and  the  scandal  of  their  immoral  lives, 


10 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


throw  the  greatest  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  the  missionaries  ?  Did  he  not  add 
that  a  few  honest  intelligent  laymen 
would  prove  most  useful  auxiliaries  in 
evangelizing  the  natives  ? " 

"Your  memory  is  faithful,  M.  de 
Mesme.  I  cannot  deny  that  you  quote 
correctly  my  brother's  words.  But  his 
letters  do  not  quite  bear  out  your  sweep- 
ing condemnation  of  the  French  set- 
tlers. If  I  remember  rightly,  he  speaks 
in  the  highest  terms  of  M.  Koli  and 
M.  de  Buisson." 

"  Is  it  the  Pere  Maret  that  Monsieur 
is  speaking  of?"  asked  d'Auban  of 
Madame  d'Orgeville. 

"  Yes,  he  is  his  brother,  and  the  mis- 
sionary priest  at  St.  Francois  des  Illi- 
nois. M.  Maret  is  Monsigneur  le  Prince 
de  Condi's  private  Secretary.  Let  me 
introduce  you  to  him.  Perhaps  you 
may  have  seen  his  brother  at  St. 
Petersburg  before  the  expulsion  of  the 
Jesuits  ? " 

"  I  knew  him  very  well,  and  wished 
much  to  know  where  he  had  been 
sent." 

"  It  may  then,  perhaps,  interest  you, 
sir,  to  read  the  last  letter  I  have  re- 
ceived from  my  brother;  it  contains 
no  family  secrets,"  M.  Maret  said  with 
a  smile. 

This  letter  was  dated  from  the  Illi- 
nois. It  did  not  give  a  very  attractive 
picture  of  the  country  where  d'Auban 
had  already  travelled  in  imagination 
since  the  morning.  It  made  it  evident 
that  Europe  sent  out  the  scum  of  her 
population  to  people  the  New  World ; 
and  that  if  good  was  to  be  done  in 
those  remote  regions,  it  must  be  by  an 
unusual  amount  of  patience,  courage, 
and  perseverance. 

But  what  would  have  disheartened 
some  men  proved  to  d'Auban  a  stimu- 
lus. There  were,  he  perceived,  two 
sides  to  the  question  of  emigration ; 
the  material  one  of  profit — the  higher 
one  well  worthy  of  the  attention  of  a 


Christian.  It  seemed  to  him  a  singular 
coincidence  that,  on  the  same  day  on 
which  it  had  been  proposed  to  him  to 
emigrate  to  America,  a  letter  should 
be  put  into  his  hands,  written  from 
that  country  by  a  man  for  whom  he 
had  a  profound  respect  and  attach- 
ment. He  found  in  it  the  following 
passage : 

"  The  excellence  of  the  climate,  the 
beauty  of  the  scenery,  the  easy  naviga- 
tion of  the  river,  on  the  shore  of  which 
our  mission  is  situated,  and  which 
flows  a  little  below  it  into  the  Missis- 
sippi, the  extreme  fertility  of  the  soil, 
the  ease  with  which  European  pro- 
ductions grow  and  European  animals 
thrive  here,  make  this  village  quite  a 
favoured  spot,  and  one  peculiarly  adapt- 
ed for  the  purposes  of  French  coloniza- 
tion. But  whether  such  establishments 
would  be  an  advantage  to  our  mission, 
is  extremely  doubtful.  If  these  emi- 
grants were  like  some  few  I  have 
known,  men  of  religious  principles  and 
moral  lives,  nothing  could  be  better 
for  our  Indians,  or  a  greater  consola- 
tion to  us,  than  that  they  should  settle 
in  our  neighbourhood ;  but  if  they  are 
to  resemble  those  who,  unfortunately, 
have  of  late  years  been  pouring  into 
Louisiana — adventurers,  libertines,  and 
scoffers— our  peaceful  and  edifying 
Indian  community  would  be  speedily 
ruined.  The  Indians  are  very  like 
children.  Their  powers  of  reasoning 
are  not  strong.  What  they  see  has  an 
unbounded  influence  over  them.  They 
would  quickly  discover  that  men  call- 
ing themselves  Christians,  and  whom 
they  would  look  upon  as  wiser  than 
themselves,  set  at  nought  the  principles 
of  the  Gospel,  and,  in  spite  of  all  the 
missionaries  might  say  or  do,  the  effect 
would  be  fatal.  From  such  an  evil 
as  that  I  -pray  that  we  may  be  pre- 
served." * 
When  the  visitors  had  taken  their 


*  From  the  Lettres  edifiantes. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


11 


leave  that  night,  and  d'Auban  remained 
alone  with  his  friends,  he  opened  his 
mind  to  them  and  agjced  their  advice. 
M.  d'Orgeville  hesitated.  His  wife,  a 
shrewd  little  woman,  who  understood 
character  more  readily  than  her  excel- 
lent husband,  fixed  her  dark  penetrating 
eyes  on  Colonel  d'Auban,  and  said: 
"My  dear  friend,  my  opinion  is  that 
you  will  do  well  to  go  to  the  New 
World.  I  say  it  with  regret,  for  we 
shall  miss  you  very  much.  If,  indeed, 
you  had  accepted  the  heiress  I  proposed 
to  you,  and  advanced  your  interests  by 
means  of  her  connections,  it  might 
have  been  different ;  but  a  man  who  at 
thirty  years  of  age  refuses  to  marry  an 
heiress  foolish  enough  to  be  in  love  with 
him,  because,  forsooth,  he  is  not  in  love 
with  her — who  does  not  accept  a  place 
offered  to  him  because  it  would  happen 
to  break  another  man's  heart  not  to 
get  it,  and  who  will  not  make  himself 
agreeable  to  the  Regent's  friends  be- 
cause he  thinks  them,  and  because  they 
are,  a  set  of  despicable  scoundrels — 
my  dear  .Colonel,  such  a  man  has  no 
business  here.  He  had  better  pack  up 
his  trunks  and  go  off  to  the  New  World, 
or  to  any  world  but  this.  Tenderness 
of  heart,  unswerving  principles,  the 
temper  of  Lafontaine's  oak,  which 
breaks  and  does  not  bend,  do  not  an- 
swer in  a  country  where  every  one  is 
scrambling  up  the  slippery  ascent  to 
fortune,  holding  on  by  another's  coat." 

"And  yet,"  answered  d'Auban,  "  there 
are  men  in  France  whose  noble  truth- 
fulness and  unshaken  integrity  none 
venture  to  call  in  question;"  and  as 
he  spoke  he  glanced  at  M.  d'Orgeville. 

"  True,"  quickly  answered  his  wife, 
laying  her  hand  on  her  husband's  em- 
broidered coat-sleeve ;  "  but  remember 
this,  such  men  have  not  their  fortunes 
to  make.  They  are  at  the  top  of  the 
ladder,  not  at  the  bottom,  and  that 
makes  all  the  difference.  It  is  always 
better  to  look  matters  in  the  face.  Here 


you  have — some  people  say  wantonly — 
I  am  persuaded  for  some  good  reason — 
but  anyhow  you  have  turned  your  back 
upon  fortune  in  a  most  affronting  man- 
ner, and  the  fickle  goddess  is  not  likely, 
I  am  afraid,  to  give  you  in  a  hurry 
another  opportunity  of  insulting  her. 
I  really  think  you  would  be  wrong  to 
refuse  M.  de  Harlay's  proposal.  You 
see,  my  dear  friend,  you  are  not  a  prac- 
tical man." 

"  Well,  I  will  not  urge  you  to  define 
that  word,"  said  d'Auban,  with  a  smile ; 
"  but  if  your  accusation  is  just,  how  can 
you  believe  that  I  shall  triumph  over 
the  difficulties  of  a  settler's  life  ? " 

"Oh,  that  is  quite  a  different  affair. 
What  I  call  a  practical  man  in  Europe 
is  one  who  bends  before  the  blast,  and 
slips  through  the  meshes  of  a  net.  In 
the  desert,  and  among  savages,  the 
temper  of  the  oak  may  find  its  use,  and 
stem  self-reliance  its  element." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  is  right,"  said  M. 
d'Orgeville,  with  a  sigh;  "though  I 
would  fain  not  think  so." 

"  At  any  rate,  you  will  not  be  in  a 
hurry  to  come  to  a  conclusion  on  this 
important  question,  and  if  you  do  emi- 
grate, all  I  can  say  is,  that  you  will  be 
a  glorious  instance  of  the  sort  of  settler 
M.  de  Mesme  does  not  believe  in." 

A  few  weeks  after  this  conversation 
had  taken  place,  M.  de  Harlay  and 
Henri  d'Auban  were  watching  the  re- 
ceding coasts  of  France  from  the  deck 
of  the  Jean  Bart,  and  four  or  five  years 
later  the  latter  was  crossing  the  forest, 
on  his  way  back  to  the  Mission  of  St. 
Francis,  after  a  visit  to  an  Indian  vil- 
lage, the  chiefs  of  which  had  smoked 
the  pipe  of  peace  with  their  French 
neighbours.  He  had  learnt  the  lan- 
guage, and  successfully  cultivated  the 
acquaintance  of  many  of  the  native 
tribes,  and  was  at  the  head  of  a  flour- 
ishing plantation.  Madame  d'Or-v 
ville  had  proved  right.  The  peculiari- 
ties of  character  which  had  stood  in 


12 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


the  way  of  a  poor  gentilhomme  seeking 
to  better  his  fortunes  in  France,  favoured 
the  successful  issue  of  his  transatlantic 
undertakings.  M.  de  Harlay  had  ful- 
filled his  promise  by  obtaining  from 
the  Company  a  grant  of  land  for  his 
friend  adjacent  to  his  own  concession, 
and  he  had  worked  it  to  good  purpose. 
His  small  fortune  was  employed  in  the 
purchase  of  stock,  of  instruments  of 
labour,  and,  it  must  be  owned,  of  negroes 
at  New  Orleans.  But  it  was  a  happy 
day  for  the  poor  creatures  in  the  slave- 
market  of  that  city,  when  they  became 
the  property  of  a  man  whose  principles 
and  disposition  differed  so  widely  from 
those  of  the  generality  of  colonists.  He 
engaged  also  as  labourers  Christian  In- 
dians of  the  Mission,  and  a  few  ruined 
emigrants,  too  happy  to  find  employ- 
ment in  a  country  where,  from  want  of 
capital  or  ability,  their  own  speculations 
had  failed.  It  was  no  easy  task  to 
govern  a  number  of  men  of  various 
races  and  characters,  to  watch  over 
their  health,  to  stimulate  their  activity, 
to  maintain  peace  amongst  them,  and, 
above  all,  to  improve  their  morals. 
The  Indians  needed  to  be  confirmed  in 
their  recently  acquired  faith,  the  negroes 
to  be  instructed,  and  the  Europeans, 
with  some  few  exceptions,  recalled  to 
the  practice  of  it.  He  laboured  inde- 
fatigably,  and  on  the  whole  success- 
fully, for  these  ends.  His  courage  in 
enduring  privations,  his  generosity, 
perhaps  even  more  his  strict  justice, 
his ,  kindness  to  the  sick  and  suffering, 
endeared  him  to  his  dependants.  He 
seemed  formed  for  command.  His  out- 
ward person  was  in  keeping  with  his 
moral  qualities.  He  hunted,  fished, 
and  rode  better  than  any  other  man  in 
the  Mission  or  the  tribe.  In  physical 
strength  and  stature  he  surpassed  them 
all.  This  secured  the  respect  of  those 
unable  to  appreciate  mental  superiority. 
It  was  not  extraordinary,  under  these 
circumstances,  that  his  concession 


thrived,  that  fortune  once  more  smiled 
upon  him.  He  was  glad  of  it,  not  only 
from  a  natural  pjeasure  in  success,  but 
also  from  the  consciousness  that,  as  his 
wealth  increased,  so  would  his  means 
of  usefulness.  He  became  deeply  at- 
tached to  the  land  which  was  bounti- 
fully bestowing  its  treasures  upon  him, 
and  displaying  every  day  before  his 
eyes  the  grand  spectacle  of  its  incom- 
parable natural  beauties.  His  heart 
warmed  towards  the  children  of  the 
soil,  and  he  took  a  lively  interest  in  the 
evangelization  of  the  Indian  race,  and 
the  labours  of  the  missionaries,especially 
those  of  his  old  friend  Father  Maret, 
whose  church  and  the  village  which 
surrounded  it  stood  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  stream,  on  the  side  of  which 
his  own  house  was  built.  If  his  life 
had  not  been  one  of  incessant  labour, 
he  must  have  suffered  from  its  loneli- 
ness. But  he  had  scarcely  had  time 
during  those  busy  years  to  feel  the  want 
of  companionship.  Month  after  month 
had  elapsed  in  the  midst  of  engrossing 
occupations.  On  the  whole,  he  was 
happy — happier  than  most  men  are — 
much  happier,  certainly,  than  his  poor 
friend,  M.  de  Harlay,  who  wasted  a 
large  sum  of  money  in  building  an 
habitation,  as  the  houses  of  the  French 
settlers  were  called,  totally  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  habits  and  requirements 
of  the  mode  of  life  he  had  adopted. 
For  one  whole  year  he  tried  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  enjoyed  that  kind  of 
existence;  it  was  only  at  the  close  of 
the  second  year  of  his  residence  in 
America,  that  he  acknowledged  to  his 
companion  that  he  was  bored  to  death 
with  the  whole  thing,  and  willing  to 
spend  as  large  a  sum  to  get  rid  of  his 
concession  as  he  had  already  expended 
upon  it.  At  last,  he  declared  one 
morning  that  he  could  endure  it  no 
longer. 

Maitre  Simon's  barge  was  about  to 
descend  the  Mississippi  to  New  Or- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


13 


leans.  The  temptation  was  irresistible, 
and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  return  to 
France,  leaving  behind  him  his  land, 
his  plantations,  his  horses,  and  the 
charming  habitation,  called  the  Pavil- 
ion, or  sometimes,  "La  Folie  de  Ear- 
lay^  D'Auban,  he  said,  might  culti- 
vate it  himself,  and  pay  him  a  nominal 
rent,  or  sell  it  for  whatever  it  would 
fetch  to  some  other  planter.  But  in 
America  he  would  not  remain  a  day 
longer  if  he  could  help  it ;  and  if  Mon- 
sieur Law  had  cheated  all  the  world, 
as  the  last  letters  from  Paris  had  stated, 
the  worst  punishment  he  wished  him 
was  banishment  to  his  German  settle- 
•  ment  in  the  New  World.  And  so  he 
stood,  waving  his  handkerchief  and 
kissing  his  hand  to  his  friend,  as  the 
clumsy  barge  glided  away  down  the 
giant  river ;  and  d'Auban  sighed  when 
he  lost  sight  of  it,  for  he  knew  he 
should  miss  his  light-hearted  country- 
man, whose  very  follies  had  served  to 
cheer  and  enliven  the  first  years  of  his 
emigration.  And,  indeed,  from  that 
time  up  to  the  moment  when  this  story 
begins,  with  the  sole  exception  of 
Father  Maret,  he  had  not  associated 
with  any  one  whose  habits  of  thought 
and  tone  of  conversation  were  at  all 
congenial  to  his  own.  No  two  persons 
could  differ  more  in  character  and 
mind  than  De  Harlay  and  himself; 
but  when  people  have  been  educated 
together,  have  mutual  friends,  acquaint- 
ances, and  recollections,  there  is  a 
common  ground  of  thought  and  sym- 
pathy, which  in  some  measure  supplies 
the  place  of  a  more  intimate  congenial- 
ity of  feelings  and  opinions. 

He  sometimes  asked  himself  if  this 
isolation  was  always  to  be  his  portion. 
He  had  no  wish  to  return  to  Europe. 
He  was  on  the  whole  well  satisfied  with 
his  lot,  nay,  grateful  for  its  many  ad- 
vantages ;  but  in  the  course  of  a  long 
solitary  walk  through  the  forest,  such 
as  he  had  taken  that  day,  or  in  the 


evenings  in  his  log-built  home,  when 
the  wind  moaned  through  the  pine 
woods  with  a  sound  which  reminded 
him  of  the  murmur  of  the  sea  on  his 
native  coast,  feelings  would  be  awak- 
ened in  his  heart  more  like  yearnings, 
indeed,  than  regrets.  In  many  persons* 
lives  there  is  a  past  which  claims  nothing 
from  them  but  a  transient  sigh,  breathed 
not  seldom  with  a  sense  of  escape — 
phases  in  their  pilgrimage  never  to  be 
travelled  over  any  more— earthly  spots 
which  they  do  not  hope,  nay,  do  not 
desire  to  revisit — but  the  remembrance 
of  which  affects  them  just  because  it 
belongs  to  the  dim  shadowy  past,  that 
past  which  was  once  alive  and  now  is 
dead.  This  had  been  the  case  with  d'Au- 
ban as  he  passed  that  evening  through 
the  little  cemetery  of  the  Christian  Mis- 
sion, where  many  a  wanderer  from  the 
Old  World  rested  in  a  foreign  soil  by 
the  side  of  the  children  of  another  race, 
aliens  in  blood  but  brethren  in  the 
faith.  A  little  farther  on  he  met  The- 
rese,  the  catechist  and  schoolmistress 
of  the  village.  He  stopped  her  in 
order  to  inquire  after  a  boy,  the  son  of 
one  of  his  labourers,  whom  he  knew 
she  had  been  to  visit.  Therese  was  an 
Indian  girl,  the  daughter  of  an  Algon- 
quin chief,  who,  after  a  battle  with 
another  tribe,  in  which  he  had  been 
mortally  wounded,  had  sent  one  of  his 
soldiers  with  his  child  to  the  black 
robe  of  St.  Francois  des  Illinois,  with 
the  prayer  that  he  would  bring  her  up 
as  a  Christian.  He  had  been  himself 
baptized  a  short  time  before.  The  lit- 
tle maiden  had  ever  since  been  called 
the  Flower  of  the  Mission.  Its  church 
had  been  her  home;  its  festivals  her 
pleasures ;  its  sacred  enclosure  her  play- 
ground. Before  she  could  speak  plain- 
ly she  gathered  flowers  and  carried 
them  in  her  little  brown  arms  into  the 
sanctuary.  When  older,  she  was  wont 
to  assemble  the  children  of  her  own 
age,  and  to  lead  them  into  the  prairies 


14 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


to  make  garlands  of  the  purple  amor- 
pha,  or  by  the  side  of  the  streams  to 
steal  golden-crowned  lotuses  from  their 
broad  beds  of  leaves  for  our  Lady's 
altar ;  and  under  the  catalpa  trees  and 
the  ilexes  she  told  them  stories  of 
Jesus  and  of  Mary,  till  the  shades  of 
evening  fell,  and  "  the  compass  flower, 
true  as  a  magnet,  pointed  to  the  north." 
As  she  advanced  in  age  her  labours 
extended ;  but  such  as  her  childhood 
had  been,  such  was  her  womanhood. 
She  became  the  catechist  of  the  Indian 
converts,  and  the  teacher  of  their  chil- 
dren. The  earnest  piety  and  the  poetic 
genius  of  her  race  gave  a  peculiar  orig- 
inality and  beauty  to  her  figurative  lan- 
guage ;  and  d'Auban  had  sometimes 
concealed  himself  behind  the  wall  of 
the  school  hut  and  listened  to  the 
Algonquin  maiden's  simple  instruc- 
tions. 

"  How  is  Pompey's  son  to-day  ?  "  he 
asked,  as  they  met  near  the  church. 

"About  to  depart  for  the  house  of 
the  great  spirits,"  she  answered.  "  He 
wants  nothing  now,  angels  will  soon 
bear  him  away  to  the  land  of  the  here- 
after. We  should  not  grieve  for  him." 

"But  you  look  as  if  you  had  been 
grieving.  Therese,  do  not  hurry  away. 
Cannot  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes, 
even  though  I  am  a  white  man  ?  I  am 
afraid  you  do  not  like  French  people." 

"  Ah !  if  all  white  men  were  like 
you  it  would  be  well  for  them  and  for 
us.  It  is  for  one  of  the  daughters  of 
your  tribe  that  I  have  been  grieving, 
not  for  the  child  of  the  black  man." 

"  Indeed,  and  what  is  her  name  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know  her  name.  She  is 
whiter  than  any  of  the  white  women  I 
have  seen — as  white  as  that  magnolia 
flower,  and  the  scent  of  her  clothes  is 
like  that  of  hay  when  newly  mown." 

"  Where  did  you  meet  with  her  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  her  walking  in  the  for- 
est, or  by  the  side  of  the  river,  late  in 
the  evening;  and  sometimes  she  sits 


down  on  one  of  the  tombs  near  the 
church.  She  lives  with  her  father  in  a 
hut  some  way  off,  amongst  the  white 
people,  who  speak  a  harsher  language 
than  yours." 

"  The  German  colony,  I  suppose  ?  Is 
this  woman  young  ? " 

"  She  must  have  seen  from  twenty  to 
twenty-five  summers." 

"When  did  they  arrive?" 

"  On  the  day  of  the  great  tempest, 
which  blew  down  so  many  trees  and 
unroofed  our  cabins.  A  little  boat  at- 
tached to  Simon's  barge  brought  them 
to  the  shore.  They  took  shelter  in  a 
ruined  hut  by  the  side  of  the  river,  and 
have  remained  there  ever  since." 

"  Have  they  any  servants  ? " 

"  A  negro  boy  and  an  Indian  woman, 
whom  they  hired  since  they  came.  She 
buys  food  for  them  in  the  village.  The 
old  man  I  have  never  seen." 

"And  why  do  you  grieve  for  this 
white  woman,  Therese  ? " 

"  Because  I  saw  her  face  some  nights 
ago  when  she  was  sitting  on  the  stump 
of  a  tree,  and  the  moon  was  shining  full 
upon  it.  It  was  beautiful,  but  so  sad ; 
it  made  me  think  of  a  dove  I  once 
found  lying  on  the  grass  with  a  wound 
in  her  breast.  When  I  went  near  the 
poor  bird  it  fluttered  painfully  and 
flew  away.  And  the  daughter  of  the 
white  man  is  like  that  dove ;  she  would 
not  stay  to  be  comforted." 

"Does  she  ever  come  to  the  house  of 
prayer  ? " 

"  No.  She  wanders  about  the  enclo- 
sure and  sits  on  the  tombstones,  and 
sometimes  she  seems  to  listen  to  the 
singing,  but  if  she  sees  any  one  coming 
she  hurries  off  like  a  frightened  fawn." 

"  And  her  father,  what  does  he  do  ? " 

"  He  never  comes  here  at  all,  I  be- 
lieve?" 

"  And  you  think  this  young  woman 
is  unhappy  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  have  seen  her  weep  as  if 
her  eyes  were  two  fountains,  and  her 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


15 


soul  the  spring  from  whence  they 
flowed.  It  is  not  with  us  as  with  the 
white  people.  We  do  not  shed  tears 
when  we  suffer.  The  pain  is  within, 
deep  in  the  heart.  It  gives  no  outward 
sign.  We  are  not  used  to  see  men  and 
women  weep.  One  day  I  was  talking 
to  Catherine,  a  slave,  on  the  Lormois 
Concession,  who  would  fain  be  a  Chris- 
tian, but  that  she  hates  the  white  peo- 
ple. Many  years  ago  she  was  stolen 
from  her  own  country  and  her  little 
•children,  and  sold  to  a  Frenchman. 
There  are  times  when  she  is  almost 
mad,  and  raves  like  a  wild  beast  robbed 
of  its  young.  But  Catherine  loves  me 
because  I  am  not  white,  and  that  I  tell 
her  of  the  Great  Spirit  who  was  made 
man,  and  said  that  little  children  were 
to  come  to  Him.  I  was  trying  to  per- 
suade her  to  forgive  the  white  people 
and  not  to  curse  them  any  more,  and 
then,  I  said,  she  would  see  her  children 
in  a  more  beautiful  country  than  her 
own,  in  the  land  of  the  hereafter ;  that 
the  Great  Spirit,  if  she  asked  Him, 
would  send  His  servants  to  teach  them 
the  way  to  that  land  where  mothers 
and  children  meet  again  if  they  are 
good.  Then  in  my  ear  I  heard  the 
sound  of  a  deep  sigh,  and  turning 
round  I  saw  the  white  man's  daughter, 
half-concealed  by  the  green  boughs, 
and  on  her  pale  cheeks  were  tears  that 
looked  like  dew-drops  on  a  prairie  lily. 
Her  eyes  met  mine,  and,  as  usual,  she 
was  off  into  the  forest  before  I  could 


utter  a  word.  I  have  not  seen  her 
since." 

"I  wish  you  did  know  her,"  said 
d'Auban,  thoughtfully. 

Therese  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  not  for  the  Indian  to  speak 
comfort  to  the  daughter  of  the  white 
man.  She  does  not  know  the  words 
which  would  reach  her  heart.  The 
black  robe,  the  chief  of  prayer,  whom 
the  Great  Spirit  sends  to  His  black, 
His  Indian,  and  His  white  children; 
his  voice  is  strong  like  the  west  wind ; 
from  his  lips  consolations  flow,  and 
blessings  from  his  hand.  And  you, 
the  eagle  of  her  tribe,  will  you  not 
stoop  to  shelter  the  white  dove  who 
has  flown  across  the  Great  Salt  Lake 
to  the  land  of  the  red  men  ? " 

D'Auban  felt  touched  by  the  ear- 
nestness of  Th6rese's  manner,  and  in- 
terested by  her  description  of  the 
stranger.  He  could  easily  imagine 
how  desolate  a  European  woman  would 
feel  on  arriving  in  such  a  miserable 
place  as  the  German  settlement,  and 
he  promised  that  as  soon  as  he  could 
find  leisure  he  would  ride  to  that  spot 
and  see  if  he  could  be  of  use  to  the 
white  man's  daughter.  Upon  this  they 
parted,  but  the  whole  of  the  evening, 
and  the  next  day  in  the  maize  fields 
and  the  cotton  groves,  his  imagination 
was  continually  drawing  pictures  of 
the  sorrowful  woman — the  wounded 
bird — that  would  not  stay  to  be  com- 
forted. 


16 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


CHAPTEK    II. 


He  is  a  proper  man's  picture,  but  .  .  .  how  oddly  he  is  suited.    I  think  he  bought  his  doublet  in 
Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany,  and  his  behaviour  everywhere. — Shakespeare. 

The  power  that  dwelleth  in  a  word  to  waken 

Vague  yearnings,  like  the  sailor's  for  the  shore, 
And  dim  remembrances  whose  hues  seem  taken 

From  some  bright  former  state,  our  own  no  more. 
The  sudden  images  of  vanished  things 
That  o'er  the  spirit  flash,  we  know  not  why, 
And  the  strange  inborn  sense  of  coming  ill 
That  ofttimes  whispers  to  the  haunted  breast, 
Whence  doth  that  murmur  wake,  that  shadow  fall  ? 
Whence  are  those  thoughts  ?    "  "Tis  mystery  all" 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


A  PEW  days  after  his  conversation 
with  Therese,  d'Auban  rode  to  a  place 
where  some  Saxon  colonists  were  clear- 
ing a  part  of  the  forest.  He  wished 
to  purchase  some  of  the  wood  they 
had  been  felling,  and,  dismounting,  he 
tied  his  horse  to'  a  tree  and  walked  to 
the  spot  where  the  overseer  was  di- 
recting the  work.  Whilst  he  was  talk- 
ing to  him,  he  noticed  an  old  man  who 
was  standing  a  little  way  off,  leaning 
with  both  hands  on  a  heavy  gold- 
headed  cane.  He  wore  the  ordinary 
European  dress  of  the  time,  but  there 
was  an  elaborate  neatness,  a  studied 
refinement  in  his  appearance  singular 
enough  amidst  the  rude  settlers  of  the 
New  World.  His  ruffles  were  made  of 
the  finest  lace,  and  the  buckles  on  his 
shoes  silver  gilt.  There  was  nothing 
the  least  remarkable  in  the  face  or 
attitude  of  this  stranger,  nothing  that 
would  have  attracted  attention  at  Paris 
or  perhaps  at  New  Orleans ;  but  it  was 
out  of  keeping  with  the  rough  activity 
of  the  men  and  the  wild  character  of 
the  scenery  in  that  remote  region.  His 
pale  gray  eyes,  shaded  with  white  eye- 
brows, wandered  listlessly  over  the 
busy  scene,  and  he  gave  a  nervous 
start  whenever  a  tree  fell  with  a 
louder  crash  than  usual.  One  of  the 


labourers  had  left  an  axe  on  the  grass 
near  where  he  was  standing.  He 
raised  it  as  if  to  measure  its  weight, 
but  his  feeble  grasp  could  not  retain 
its  hold  of  the  heavy  implement,  and 
it  fell  to  the  ground.  D'Auban  stepped 
forward  to  pick  it  up  and  restore  it  to 
him.  He  thanked  him,  and  said  in 
French,  but  with  a  German  accent, 
that  he  would  not  meddle  with  it  any 
more.  This  little  incident  served  as 
an  introduction,  and  the  old  man 
seemed  pleased  to  find  somebody  not 
too  busy  to  talk  to  him.  His  own  ob- 
servations betrayed  great  ignorance  as 
to  the  nature  of  the  country  or  the 
general  habits  of  colonists.  He  talked 
about  the  want  of  accommodation  he 
had  met  with  in  America,  and  the 
dirty  state  of  the  Indian  villages,  as  if 
he  had  been  travelling  through  a  civ- 
ilized country.  He  told  d'Auban  that 
he  intended  to  purchase  land  in  that 
neighbourhood,  and  to  build  a  house. 

"I  begin  to  despair,"  he  said,  "of 
finding  one  which  would  suit  us  to 
buy  or  to  hire.  I  suppose,  sir,  you  do 
not  know  of  one  ? " 

"  Certainly  not  of  one  to  let,"  d'Au- 
ban answered  with  a  smile,  for  the  idea 
of  hiring  a  house  in  the  backwoods 
struck  him  in  a  ludicrous  light. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


17 


"  But  I  have  had  a  concession  left  on 
my  hands  by  a  friend  who  has  returned 
to  Europe,  and  which  has  upon  it  a 
house  very  superior  to  any  thing  we 
see  in  this  part  of  the  world.  Many 
thousand  francs  have  been  spent  on 
this  little  pavilion,  which  is  reckoned 
quite  a  curiosity,  and  goes  by  the  name 
of  the  Vicomte  de  Harlay's  Folly.  The 
purchaser  of  the  concession  would  get 
the  house  simply  thrown  into  the 
bargain." 

"  That  sounds  very  well,"  exclaimed 
the  old  man;  "I  think  it  would  suit 
us." 

"Well,  M.  de  Harlay  has  empowered 
me  to  dispose  of  his  land  and  house. 
It  is  close  to  my  plantation,  a  few 
leagues  up  the  river.  I  should  be 
very  happy  to  let  you  see  it,  and  to 
explain  its  advantages  as  an  invest- 
ment. I  am  going  back  there  this 
morning,  and  if  you  would  like  to  visit 
it  at  once,  I  am  quite  at  your  orders. 
We  have  still  the  day  before  us." 

The  stranger  bowed,  coughed,  and 
then  said  in  a  hesitating  manner : 

"Am  I  by  any  chance  speaking  to 
Colonel  d'Auban?" 

"Yes,  I  am  Colonel  d'Auban,  pour 
voua  servir,  as  the  peasants  say  in 
France." 

"Then  indeed,  sir,  I  am  inexpressi- 
bly honoured  and  delighted  to  have 
made  your  acquaintance.  I  have  been 
assured  that  in  this  country  an  honest 
man  is  a  rarity  which  Diogenes  might 
well  have  needed  his  lanthorn  to  dis- 
cover. A  merchant  at  New  Orleans,  to 
whom  I  brought  letters  of  introduction, 
told  me  that  if  I  was  going  to  the  Illi- 
nois I  should  try  to  consult  Colonel 
d'Auban  about  the  purchase  of  a  planta- 
tion, and  not  hesitate  a  moment  about 
following  his  advice.  I  therefore  grate- 
fully accept  your  obliging  proposal, 
but  I  must  beg  you  to  be  BO  good  as  to 
allow  me  first  to  inform  my  daughter 
of  our  intended  excursion.  I  will  be 


with  you  again  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
my  amiable  friend,  ready  and  happy 
to  surrender  myself  to  your  invaluable 
guidance." 

"Who  is  that  gentleman?"  asked 
d'Auban  of  the  German  overseer,  as 
soon  as  the  little  old  man  had  trotted 
away. 

"He  is  called  M.  de  Chambelle. 
Though  his  name  is  French,  I  think  he 
is  a  German.  Nobody  knows  whence 
he  comes,  or  why  he  is  come  at  alL 
He  talks  of  houses  and  gardens,  as  if 
he  was  living  in  France  or  in  Saxony. 
I  wish  him  joy  of  the  villas  he  will  find 
here.  And  then  he  speaks  to  the  In- 
dians and  the  negroes  for  all  the  world 
as  if  they  were  Christians." 

"Many  of  them  are  Christians,  M. 
Klein,  and  often  better  ones  than  our- 
selves," observed  d'Auban. 

"  Oh !  I  did  not  mean  Christians  in 
that  sense.  It  is  only  a  way  of  speak- 
ing, you  know." 

"True,"  said  d'Auban.  "A  man 
told  me  the  other  day,  that  his  horse 
was  so  clever  that  he  never  forgave  or 
forgot — just  like  a  Christian." 

The  overseer  laughed. 

"  You  should  see  that  old  gentleman 
bowing  and  speechifying  to  the  Indian 
women.  He  said  the  other  day  to  a 
hideous  old  squaw,  "  Madame  la  Sauva- 
gesse,  will  you  sell  me  some  of  the  fruit 
your  fair  hands  have  gathered  ?  "  She 
said  she  would  give  him  some  without 
intention,  which  in  their  phraseology 
means  without  expecting  to  be  paid. 
The  next  day,  however,  she  came  to 
his  hut,  and  inquired  if  he  was  not  go- 
ing to  give  Tier  something  without  inten- 
tion. The  poor  old  man,  who  is  dread- 
fully afraid  of  the  natives,  was  obliged 
to  part  with  some  clothes  Madame  la 
Sauvagesse  had  taken  a  fancy  to." 

"  Has  M.  dc  Chambelle  a  daughter  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  pale  handsome  woman,  much 
too  delicate  and  helpless,  from  what  I 
hear,  for  this  sort  of  hand-to-mouth 


18 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


life.  They  say  she  is  a  widow.  It  is 
somewhat  funny  that  the  French  peo- 
ple who  come  here  almost  always  stick 
a  de  before  their  names.  The  father  is 
called  M.  de  Chambelle,  and  the  daugh- 
ter, Madame  de  Moldau." 

"  Do  you  know  if  they  have  brought 
letters  of  introduction  with  them  to 
any  one  in  this  or  the  neighbouring 
settlements  ? " 

"  I  have  not  heard  that  they  have ; 
except  M.  Koli  and  yourself,  there  is 
scarcely  a  planter  hereabouts  whom  it 
would  be  of  any  advantage  to  know." 

"I  thought  as  they  were  Germans 
that  some  of  your  countrymen  might 
have  written  about  them." 

"  We  are  a  poor  set  here  now  that  M. 
Law's  grand  schemes  have  come  to 
nought.  We  do  a  little  business  on 
our  own  account  by  felling  and  selling 
trees,  and  it  is  lucky  we  do  so,  for  not 
a  sou  of  his  money  have  we  seen  for  a 
long  time.  It  is  impossible  to  main- 
tain his  slaves,  and  the  plantation  is 
going  to  ruin.  Ah!  there  is  M.  de 
Chambelle  coming  back ;  did  you  ever 
see  such  a  figure  for  an  habitant  f  One 
would  fancy  he  carried  a  hair-dresser 
about,  his  hair  is  always  so  neatly 
powdered." 

"  Will  a  long  walk  tire  you  ? "  asked 
d'Auban  as  his  new  acquaintance 
joined  them,  "  or  will  you  ride  my 
horse  ?  Do  not  have  any  scruples.  No 
amount  of  walking  ever  tires  me." 

"  Dear  sir,  if  we  might  both  walk  I 
should  like  it  better,"  answered  M.  de 
Chambelle,  glancing  uneasily  at  the 
horse,  who,  weary  of  the  long  delay, 
was  pawing  in  a  manner  he  did  not 
quite  fancy.  "  If  you  will  now  and 
then  lend  me  your  arm,  I  can  keep  on 
my  legs  without  fatigue  for  three  or 
four  hours." 

D'Auban  passed  the  horse's  bridle 
over  his  arm,  and  led  the  way  to  an 
opening  in  the  forest,  through  which 
they  had  to  pass  on  their  way  to  the 


Pavilion  St.  Agathe,  which  was  the 
proper  name  of  M.  de  Harlay's  habita- 
tion. Whenever  they  came  to  a  rough 
bit  of  ground  he  gave  his  arm  to  his 
companion,  who  leant  upon  it  lightly, 
and  chatted  as  he  went  along  with  a 
sort  of  child-like  confidence  in  his  new 
friend.  D'Auban's  concession,  and  the 
neighbouring  one  of  St.  Agathe,  were 
situated  much  higher  up  the  river  than 
the  German  settlement.  His  own  house 
was  close  to  the  water-side.  The  pavil- 
ion stood  on  an  eminence  in  the  midst 
of  a  beautiful  grove,  and  overlooked  a 
wide  extent  of  prairie  land,  bounded 
only  in  one  direction  by  the  outline  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  magnifi- 
cent scenery  which  surrounded  this 
little  oasis,  the  luxuriant  vegetation, 
the  grandeur  of  the  wide-spreading 
trees,  the  domes  of  blossom  which  here 
and  there  showed  amidst  masses  of 
verdure,  the  numberless  islets  scattered 
over  the  surface  of  the  broad-bosomed 
river,  the  shady  recesses  and  verdant 
glades  which  formed  natural  alleys  and 
bowers  in  its  encircling  forest,  com- 
bined to  make  its  position  so  beautiful, 
that  it  almost  accounted  for  M.  de 
Harlay's  short-lived  but  violent  fancy 
for  his  transatlantic  property.  It  was 
a  lovely  scene  which  met  the  eyes  of 
the  pedestrians,  when  about  mid-day 
they  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill.  A 
noontide  stillness  reigned  in  the  savan- 
nahs, where  herds  of  buffaloes  reposed 
in  the  long  grass.  Now  and  then  a 
slight  tremulous  motion,  like  a  ripple 
on  the  sea,  stirred  that  boundless  ex- 
panse of  green,  but  not  a  sound  of 
human  or  animal  life  rose  from  its 
flowery  depths. 

Not  so  in  the  grove  round  the  pavil- 
ion. There  the  ear  was  almost  deaf- 
ened by  the  multifarious  cries  of  beasts, 
the  chirpings  of  birds,  the  hum  of  myr- 
iads of  insects.  The  eye  was  dazzle 
by  the  rapidity  of  their  movements. 
Hares  and  rabbits  and  squirrels  dart- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


19 


ed  every  instant  out  of  the  thickets, 
and  monkeys  grinned  and  chattered 
amongst  the  branches.  Winged  crea- 
tures of  every  shape  and  hue  were 
springing  out  of  the  willow  grass,  hov- 
ering over  clusters  of  roses,  swinging 
on  the  cordages  of  the  grape  vine, 
flying  up  into  the  sky,  diving  in 
the  streamlets,  fluttering  amongst  the 
leaves,  and  producing  a  confused  mur- 
mur very  strange  to  an  unaccustomed 
ear. 

Neither  the  magnificence  of  the  sce- 
nery nor  the  vivacity  of  the  denizens 
of  the  surrounding  grove,  attracted 
much  of  M.  de  Chambelle's  attention. 
When  he  caught  sight  of  the  pavilion, 
he  burst  forth  in  exclamations  of  de- 
light. "  Is  it  possible  1 "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Do  I  really  see,  not  a  cabin  or  a  hut, 
not  one  of  those  abominable  wigwams, 
but  a  house,  a  real  house !  fit  for  civil- 
ized people  to  live  in  1  and  is  it  really 
to  be  sold,  my  dear  sir,  there,  just  as  it 
stands,  furniture,  birds,  flowers,  and 
all  ?  What  may  be  the  price  of  this 
charming  habitation  f  " 

D'Auban  named  the  sum  he  thought 
it  fair  to  ask  for  the  plantation,  and 
said  the  house  was  included  in  the 
purchase.  M.  de  Chambelle  took  out 
his  pocket-book  and  made  a  brief  cal- 
culation. 

"  It  will  do  perfectly  well,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "The  interest  of  this  sum 
will  not  exceed  the  rent  we  should 
have  had  to  pay  for  a  house  at  New  Or- 
leans. It  is  exactly  what  we  wanted." 

"You  have  been  fortunate  to  hit 
upon  it,  then,"  said  d'Auban  with  a 
smile,  "for  I  suppose  that  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Mississippi  to  the  sources 
of  the  Missouri  you  would  not  have 
found  such  a  habitation  as  my  poor 
friend's  Folly.  However,  as  Providence 
has  conducted  you  to  this  spot,  and 
you  think  the  etallissemmt  will  suit 
you,  we  better  go  over  the  house  and 
afterwards  visit  the  plantations,  in 


order  that  you  may  judge  of  the  present 
condition  and  the  prospects  of  the 
concession." 

"  I  do  not  much  care  about  that,  my 
dear  sir.  My  knowledge  on  agricul- 
tural subjects  is  very  limited,  and  I  am 
no  judge  of  crops.  Indeed  I  greatly 
doubt  if  I  should  know  a  field  of  maize 
from  one  of  barley,  or  distinguish  be- 
tween a  coffee  and  a  cotton  plantation." 

D'Auban  looked  in  astonishment  at 
his  companion.  "Is  this  a  cunning 
adventurer,  or  the  most  simple  of  men  ? " 
was  the  thought  in  his  mind  as  he  led 
M.  de  Chambelle  into  the  house,  who 
was  at  once  as  much  delighted  with 
the  inside  as  he  had  been  with  the  out- 
side of  the  building.  The  entrance- 
chamber  was  decorated  with  the  skins 
of  various  wild  animals,  and  the  horns 
of  antelopes  ingeniously  arranged  in 
the  form  of  trophies.  Bows  and  arrows, 
hatchets,  tomahawks,  and  clubs,  all 
instruments  of  Indian  warfare,  were 
hanging  against  the  walls.  There  was 
a  small  room  on  one  side  of  this  hall 
fitted  up  with  exquisite  specimens  of 
Canadian  workmanship,  and  possessing 
several  articles  of  European  furniture, 
which  had  been  conveyed  at  an  im- 
mense expense  from  New  Orleans.  There 
was  an  appearance  of  civilization,  if 
not  of  what  we  should  call  comfort,  in 
this  parlor,  as  well  as  in  two  sleeping 
chambers,  in  which  real  beds  were  to 
be  found;  a  verandah,  which  formed 
a  charming  sitting-room  in  hot  weather, 
and  at  the  back  of  the  house  a  well- 
fitted  up  kitchen,  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  M.  de  Chambelle's  ecstasies. 

"  One  could  really  fancy  oneself  in 
Europe,"  he  exclaimed,  rubbing  his 
hands  with  delight. 

"  I  do  not  think  Madame  de  Moldau 
will  believe  her  eyes  when  she  sees  this 
charming  pavilion.  It  is  really  more 
than  we  could  have  expected.  .  .  ." 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  said 
d'Auban,  laughing.  "  You  might  have 


20 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


travelled  far  and  wide  before  you  stum- 
bled on  such  a  house  in  the  New  World." 

"Ah,  the  New  World— the  New 
World,  my  dear  sir.  Don't  you  find  it 
dreadfully  uncivilized?  I  cannot  ac- 
custom myself  to  the  manners  of  the 
savages.  Their  countenances  are  so 
wild,  their  habits  so  unpleasant,  there 
is  something  so — so,  in  short,  so  savage 
in  all  their  ways,  that  I  cannot  feel  at 
all  at  home  with  them.  By-the-bye, 
there  is  only  one  thing  I  do  not  like  in 
this  delightful  habitation." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  a  very  solitary  resi- 
dence. You  see  the  Indian  servant, 
our  negro  boy,  Madame  de  Moldau,  and 
myself,  we  do  not  compose  a  very  for- 
midable garrison." 

"  But  my  house  is  at  a  stone's  throw 
from  this  one.  In  the  winter  you  can 
see  it  through  those  trees,  and  then  the 
wigwams  of  our  laborers  are  scattered 
about  at  no  great  distance." 

"Ah,  your  laborers  live  in  wigwams ! 
Horrible  things,  I  think ;  but  I  suppose 
they  are  used  to  them.  Have  you  many 
savages,  then,  in  your  employment  ? " 

"I  have  some  Indian  laborers,  but 
they  are  Christians,  and  no  longer  de- 
serve the  name  of  savages.  I  like  them 
better  than  the  negroes.  My  French 
servants  and  I  live  in  the  house  I  spoke 
of." 

"  Oh,  then  it  is  all  right,  all  charm- 
ing, all  perfect.  With  a  loud  cry  of 
"A  moi,  mes  amis,  Messieurs  les  Sau- 
vages  are  upon  us ! "  we  could  call  you 
to  our  assistance.  Well,  my  dear  sir,  I 
wish  to  conclude  the  purchase  of  this 
place  as  soon  as  possible.  Will  it  suit 
your  convenience  if  I  give  you  a  cheque 
on  Messrs.  Dumont  et  Compagnie,  New 
Orleans?" 

"Certainly.  I  have  no  doubt  they 
will  undertake  to  transmit  the  amount 
to  M.  de  Harlay's  bankers  in  Paris." 

"  I  hope  we  may  be  allowed  to  take 
possession  of  the  house  without  much 


delay ;  Madame  de  Moldau  is  so  weary 
of  the  vile  hut  where  we  have  spent  so 
many  weeks." 

"  I  can  take  upon  myself  to  place  the 
pavilion  at  once  at  your  disposal  for  a 
few  days,  and  you  can  then  make  up 
your  mind  at  leisure  about  concluding 
the  purchase." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  sir ;  but  my 
mind  is,  I  assure  you,  quite  made  up. 
I  am  sure  we  could  go  farther  and  fare 
worse  ;  the  saying  was  never  more  ap- 
plicable." 

"  But  you  are  not  at  all  acquainted 
yet  with  the  state  or  the  value  of  the 
concession.  You  have  not  gone  over 
the  accounts  of  the  last  years." 

"  Is  that  necessary  ? " 

"  Indispensable,  I  should  say,"  d'Au- 
ban  answered,  rather  coldly. 

"  It  would  be  quite  impossible,  I  sup- 
pose, to  let  us  have  the  house  without 
the  land  ?  You  see  it  will  suit  us  per- 
fectly as  a  residence,  but  I  do  not  see- 
how  I  am  to  manage  the  business  of 
the  concession.  Is  not  that  what  you 
call  it?" 

D'Auban,  more  puzzled  than  ever  by 
the  simplicity  of  this  avowal,  exclaim- 
ed, "  But  in  the  name  of  patience,  sir, 
what  can  you  want  a  house  for  in  this 
country,  unless  you  intend  to  work  the 
land  ?  You  do  not  mean,  I  suppose,  to 
throw  it  out  of  cultivation  and  to  sell 
the  slaves  ? " 

"  O  no  !  I  suppose  that  would  not  be 
right.  There  are  slaves,  too.  'I  had 
not  thought  of  that.  Who  has  man- 
aged it  all  since  M.  de  Harlay  went 
away?" 

"I  have." 

"  Then  you  will  help  me  with  your 
advice  ? "  This  idea  made  M.  de  Cham- 
belle  brighten  up  like  a  person  who 
suddenly  sees  a  ray  of  light  in  a  dark 
wood.  "  Oh  yes,  of  course,  every  thing 
must  go  on  as  usual,  and  you  will  put 
me  in  the  way  of  it  all." 

"I    now   propose,"    said    d'Auban, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


21 


"that  we  take  some  refreshment  at 
my  house,  where  you  can  see  the  ac- 
counts, and  then  that  we  should  go 
over  the  plantations." 

"  By  all  means,  by  all  means,"  cried 
M.  de  Chambelle,  trying  to  put  a  good 
face  on  the  matter.  "  And  as  we  walk 
along,  you  can  point  out  the  principal 
things  that  have  to  be  attended  to  in 
the  management  of  a  concession." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  day 
d'Auban  took  great  pains  to  explain 
to  his  guest  the  nature  and  capabilities 
of  his  proposed  purchase,  and  the 
amount  of  its  value  as  an  investment. 
M.  de  Chambelle  listened  with  great 
attention,  and  assented  to  every  thing. 
Two  or  three  times  he  interrupted  him 
with  such  remarks  as  these :  "  She  will 
like  the  low  couch  in  the  parlour ; "  or 
"Madame  de  Moldau  can  sit  in  the 
verandah  on  fine  summer  evenings;" 
or  again,  "I  hope  the  noise  of  the 
birds  and  insects  will  not  annoy  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau.  Do  you  think,  my 
dear  sir,  the  slaves  could  drive  them 
away  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  would  be  a  task 
beyond  their  power,"  d'Auban  said  as 
gravely  as  he  could.  "  But  depend  upon 
it,  after  the  first  few  days  your  daugh- 
ter will  get  so  accustomed  to  the  sound 
as  scarcely  to  hear  it.  I  am  afraid,"  he 
added,  "  she  must  have  suffered  very 
much  during  the  voyage  up  the  riv- 
er?" 

"  Oh  yes,  she  has  suffered  very  much," 
the  old  man  answered ;  and  then  he 
hastened  to  change  the  subject  by  ask- 
ing some  question  about  crops,  which 
certainly  evinced  an  incredible  absence 
of  the  most  ordinary  knowledge  and 
experience  in  such  matters. 

Before  they  parted,  M.  de  Chambelle 
and  d'Auban  agreed  that  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  following  day  he  should 
remove  with  his  daughter  to  St.  Agathe. 
D'Auban  offered  to  fetch  them  himself 
in  his  boat  and  to  send  a  barge  for  their 


luggage.  M.  de  Chambelle  thanked 
him  very  much,  hesitated  a  little,  and 
then  said  that,  if  he  would  not  take  it 
amiss,  he  should  beg  of  him  not  to 
come  himself,  but  only  to  send  his 
boatmen.  Madame  de  Moldau  was  so 
unaccustomed  to  the  sight  of  strangers, 
and  in  such  delicate  health,  that  the 
very  efforts  she  would  make  to  express 
her  gratitude  to  Colonel  d'Auban  would 
tax  her  strength  too  severely.  He  felt 
a  little  disappointed,  but  of  course  as- 
sented. The  following  morning  he 
went  through  the  rooms  of  the  pavil- 
ion, arranging  and  re-arranging  the 
furniture,  and  conveying  from  his  own 
house  some  of  the  not  over-abundant 
articles  it  contained  to  the  chamber 
Madame  de  Moldau  was  to  occupy. 

"Antoine,"  he  said  to  his  servant, 
who  was  in  the  kitchen  at  St.  Agathe, 
storing  it  with  provisions,  "just  go 
home  and  fetch  me  the  two  pictures  in 
my  study ;  the  walls  here  look  so  bare." 

"  But  Monsieur's  own  room  will  look 
very  dull  without  them,"  answered 
Antoine,  who  by  no  means  approved 
of  the  dismantling  process  which  had 
been  going  on  all  the  morning  in  his 
master's  house." 

"Never  mind,  I  want  them  here; 
and  bring  some  nails  and  some  string 
with  you." 

A  little  water-colour  view  of  a  castle 
on  a  cliff  and  a  tolerable  copy  of  the 
Madonna  della  Seggiola  soon  ornament- 
ed the  lady's  bed-room,  ^Jiilst  a  selec- 
tion from  his  scanty  library  gave  a 
home-like  appearance  to  the  little  par- 
lour. A  basket  full  of  grapes  was 
placed  on  the  table,  and  then  Therese 
came  in  with  an  immense  nosegay  in 
her  hand. 

"Ah!  that  is  just  what  I  wanted," 
d'Auban  exclaimed. 

"For  the  nest  of  the  white  dove,n 
she  answered,  with  the  sudden  lighting 
up  of  the  eye  which  supplies  the  place 
of  a  smile  in  an  Indian  face. 


22 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


"  You  see  we  have  found  a  cage  for 
your  wounded  bird,  Therese,  and  now 
we  shall  have  to  tame  her." 

"Ah!"  cried  Therese,  putting  her 
hand  to  her  mouth — a  token  of  admira- 
tion amongst  the  Indians—"  you  have 
brought  her  pictures,  which  will  not 
fade  like  my  poor  flowers." 

"  But  she  may  get  tired  of  the  pic- 
tures, and  you  may  bring  her,  if  you 
like,  fresh  flowers  every  day." 

"Look,"  said  Therese,  pointing  to 
the  river.  "  There  is  your  boat ;  they 
are  coming." 

"  So  they  are.  I  did  not  expect  them 
so  soon." 

He  sent  Antoine  to  meet  the  stran- 
gers and  conduct  them  to  the  house, 
and  walked  across  the  wooded  lawn  to 
his  own  home.  All  the  evening  he 
felt  unsettled.  In  his  monotonous  life 
an  event  of  any  sort  was  an  unusual 
excitement.  He  went  in  and  out  of 
the  house,  paced  restlessly  up  and 
down  the  margin  of  the  stream.  His 
eyes  were  continually  turning  towards 
the  pavilion,  from  the  chimney  of 
which,  for  the  first  time  for  three  years, 
smoke  was  issuing.  He  watched  that 
blue  curling  smoke,  and  felt  as  if  it 
warmed  his  heart.  Perhaps  he  had 
suffered  from  a  sense  of  loneliness  more 
than  he  was  quite  aware  of,  and  that 
the  thought  of  those  helpless  beings 
close  at  hand,  of  whom  he  knew  so 
little,  but  who  inspired  him  with  a 
vague  intere^,  was  an  unconscious  re- 
lief. He  pictured  them  to  himself  in 
their  new  home.  He  wondered  what 
impression  the  first  sight  of  it  had 
made  on  Madame  de  Moldau,  and  then 
he  tried  to  fancy  what  she  was  like. 
Therese  thought  her  beautiful,  and  the 
German  overseer  said  she  was  hand- 
some. She  was  not,  in  that  case,  like 
her  father.  "Would  he  feel  disappoint- 
ed when  he  saw  her  ?  Would  she  turn 
out  to  be  a  good-looking  woman  with 
white  cheeks  and  yellow  hair,  such  as 


an  Indian  and  a  German  boor  would 
admire,  one  because  it  was  the  first  of 
the  sort  she  had  seen,  and  the  other 
because  he  had  not  known  any  others. 
He  missed  his  pictures  a  little.  The 
room,  as  Antoine  had  said,  would  look 
dull  without  them.  Perhaps  they  had 
not  attracted  her  notice  at  all,  or  if 
they  had,  she  did  not  perhaps  care  at 
all  about  them.  He  grew  tired  of 
thinking,  but  could  not  banish  the  sub- 
ject from  his  mind.  As  the  shades  of 
evening  deepened,  and  the  crescent 
moon  arose,  and  myriads  of  stars,  "  the 
common  people  of  the  sky,"  as  Sir 
Henry  Wootton  calls  them,  showed 
one  by  one  in  the  blue  vault  of  heaven, 
and  were  pictured  in  the  mirror  of  the 
smooth  broad  river,  he  still  wandered 
about  the  grove,  whence  he  could  see 
St.  Agathe  and  the  window  of  the 
chamber  which  he  supposed  was  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau's.  There  was  a  light 
in  it — perhaps  she  was  reading  one  of 
his  books — perhaps  she  was  gazing  on 
the  dark  woods  and  shining  river,  and 
thinking  of  a  far-distant  home.  She 
was  weeping,  perhaps,  or  praying,  or 
sleeping.  "Again,"  he  impatiently 
exclaimed,  "again  at  this  guessing 
work  !  What  a  fool  I  am !  What  are 
these  people  to  me,  and  why  on  earth 
have  they  come  here  ? " 

That  last  question  he  was  destined 
very  often  to  put  to  himself  with  more 
or  less  of  curiosity,  of  anxiety,  and  it 
might  be,  of  pain,  as  time  went  on. 

The  purchaser  of  St.  Agathe  was  en- 
chanted with  his  new  possession,  and 
began  in'  earnest,  as  he  considered,  to 
apply  himself  to  his  new  pursuits  as 
an  agriculturist  and  planter;  but  the 
absurd  mistakes  which  attended  his 
first  attempts  at  the  management  of 
his  property,  increased  d'Auban's  as- 
tonishment that  a  man  so  unfitted  for 
business  should  ever  have  thought  of 
becoming  a  settler.  Instruction  and 
advice  were  simply  thrown  away  on 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


M.  de  Chambelle.  He  might  as  well 
have  talked  to  a  child  about  the 
management  of  a  plantation,  and  he 
plainly  foresaw  that  unless  some  more 
experienced  person  were  entrusted 
with  the  business,  the  concession  might 
be  as  well  at  once  given  up.  At  the 
end  of  a  few  days  he  frankly  told  him 
as  much,  and  advised  him  to  engage 
some  other  emigrant  to  act  as  his  agent, 
or  to  join  him  as  a  partner  in  the  spec- 
ulation. 

M.  de  Chambelle  eagerly  caught  at 
the  idea,  and  proposed  to  d'Auban 
himself  to  enter  into  partnership  with 
him. 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  Colonel,"  he  urged, 
"  you  will  be  doing  a  truly  charitable 
action.  Whom  else  could  I  trust  ?  on 
whose  honour  could  I  rely  in  this 
dreadful  country  of  savages  and  set- 
tlers, many  of  whom  have  not  more 
conscience  than  the  natives  ? " 

"Not  half  as  much,  I  fear,"  said 
d'Auban ;  "  but  you  could  write  to  M. 
Dumont  and  ask  him  to  look  out  for 
you  at  New  Orleans — " 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  ruin  the  plan- 
tation and  go  out  of  my  mind.  M. 
d'Auban,  do  consider  my  position." 

There  was  an  eager  wistful  expres- 
sion on  the  old  man's  face,  which  at 
once  touched  and  provoked  d'Auban, 
and  "  why  on  earth  did  he  put  himself 
in  that  position?"  was  his  inward 
exclamation.  He  was  not  in  a  very 
good  humour  that  day.  He  could  not 
help  feeling  a  little  hurt  at  the  man- 
ner in  which,  whilst  he  was  assisting 
her  father  in  every  possible  way,  and 
showering  kindnesses  upon  them,  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  avoided  him.  M.  de 
Chambelle  had  asked  him  one  day  to 
call  at  St.  Agathe,  and  assured  him 
that,  much  as  she  dreaded  the  sight  of 
strangers,  she  really  did  wish  to  make 
his  acquaintance.  D'Auban  said  he 
would  go  with  him  to  the  pavilion, 
but  begged  him  to  wait  a  few  minutes 


till  he  had  finished  directing  some  let- 
ters which  a  traveller  was  going  to 
take  with  him  that  evening.  M.  de 
Chambelle  sat  down,  and  as  each  letter 
was  thrown  on  the  table,  he  read  the 
directions.  One  of  them  was  to  a 
Prince  Mitroski,  at  St.  Petersburg.  As 
they  were  walking  to  St.  Agathe,  he 
asked  d'Auban  if  he  had  ever  been  in 
Russia. 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "I  was 
there  for  some  years." 

"  How  long  ago,  my  dear  sir  ? " 
"  I  left  it  about  five  years  ago." 
"  Were  you  in  the  Russian  service  ? " 
"  Yes,  I  commanded  a  regiment  of 
artillery.  And  you,  M.  de  Chambelle, 
have  you  ever  been  at  St.  Petersburg  ? " 
"  Oh,  I  have  been  all  over  the  world," 
M.  de  Chambelle  answered  with  a  shrug, 
and  then  began  to  chatter  in  his  random 
sort  of  way,  passing  from  one  subject 
to  another  without  allowing  time  for 
any  comments.  When  they  arrived  at 
the  pavilion,  he  begged  d'Auban  to 
wait  in  the  parlor,  and  went  to  look 
for  Madame  de  Moldau.  In  a  few  min- 
utes he  returned,  and  said  she  had  a 
bad  headache,  and  begged  M.  d'Auban 
to  excuse  her.  Several  days  had  elapsed 
since  then,  and  no  message  had  been 
sent  to  invite  his-  return.  He  felt  a 
little  angry  with  the  lady,  and  still 
more  with  himself,  for  caring  whether 
she  saw  him  or  not. 

Foolish  as  all  this  was,  it  did  not 
incline  him  to  a  favourable  considera- 
tion of  M.  de  Chambelle's  proposal. 

"  You  are  so  clever,"  the  latter  plead- 
ed. "  You  know  all  about  this  conces- 
sion, and  you  manage  your  own  so  beau- 
tifully, and  you  understand  so  well  how 
to  behave  to  the  labourers.  When  I 
speak  civilly  to  them  they  laugh,  and 
if  I  find  fault  they  turn  their  backs 
upon  me,  and  make  remarks  in  their 
own  language,  which  I  have  every 
reason  to  suppose  are  not  over  and  above 
polite.  We  are  not  in  any  particular 


24 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


hurry  about  profits ;  I  do  not  mind  let- 
ting you  into  the  secret.  We  have  got 
a  large  sum  of  money  at  the  banker's 
at  New  Orleans,  and  I  can  draw  upon 
them  if  necessary.  You  would  then 
make  all  the  bargains  for  us  with  Mes- 
sieurs les  Sauvages,  and  I  need  not  have 
any  thing  to  say  to  them.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  happy  it  would  make  me,  and 
Madame  de  Moldau  also." 

"Indeed!"  d'Auban  said,  with  a 
rather  scornful  smile. 

"  Of  course  you  would  make  your 
own  conditions.  I  assure  you  that  I 
look  upon  it  as  a  providential  event  to 
have  met  with  such  a  friend  as  you 
have  been  to  us  in  this  land  of  savages 
and  alligators.  By  the  way,  I  forgot 
to  tell  you  how  narrowly  I  escaped 
yesterday  one  of  those  horrible  animals." 

"  Your  reliance  on  Providence  seems 
to  me  to  have  been  carried  to  excess," 
d'Auban  observed,  still  in  a  sarcastic 
tone.  "  Suppose  we  had  not  met,  what 
would  you  have  done  ?  Your  daughter 
could  not  have  endured  the  ordinary 
hardships  of  a  settler's  life.  Had  it 
not  been  for  St.  Agathe— " 

"Aye,  and  for  Colonel  d'Auban,  what 
would  have  become  of  us?  But  you 
see  she  would  come  to  Louisiana,  and 
when  we  got  to  New  Orleans  nothing 
would  serve  her  but  to  come  on  to  this 
place.  What  could  I  do  ? " 

D'Auban  laughed.  "  Is  it,  then,  the 
new  fashion  in  France  for  parents  to 
obey  their  children  ? 

"  Ah !  ce  que  femme  veut  Dieu  le 
veut !  One  cannot  refuse  her  any  thing." 

"Perhaps  she  has  had  some  great 
sorrow.  Has  she  lost  her  husband 
lately?" 

"I  suppose  she  has  suffered  every 
thing  a  woman  can  suffer,"  the  old  man 
answered,  in  a  tone  of  feeling  which 
touched  d'Auban. 

"  She  has  one  great  blessing  left,"  he 
kindly  said — "an  affectionate  father. 
O  no,  no!  what  can  such  a  one  as  I 


do  for  her?  But  what  I  meant  was 
that  if  she  is  bent  upon  a  thing — " 

"  She  cannot  be  dissuaded  from  it," 
said  d'Auban,  again  smiling. 

"Well,  I  could  never  say  nay  to  a 
lady,  and  when  you  see  Madame  de 
Moldau—" 

"  I  shall  understand  that  her  wishes 
are  not  to  be  resisted.  I  am  quite  will- 
ing to  believe  it." 

"  But  with  regard  to  the  partnership, 
M.  d'Auban." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  you  will  excuse  my 
speaking  plainly,  M.  de  Chambelle.  I 
perfectly  admit  that  you  cannot  manage 
your  property  yourself,  but  at  the  same 
time  I  would  greatly  prefer  your  apply- 
ing to  some  other  colonist  to  join  you 
in  the  undertaking." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  talking  to  me 
of  some  other  colonist  ?  Is  there  a  sin- 
gle person  in  this  neighbourhood  whom 
you  could  now  really  recommend  to 
me  as  a  partner  ?  Only  consider  how  I 
am  situated." 

"  Et  que  diable  est-il  venu  faire  dans 
cette  galere  ! "  muttered  d'Auban,  and 
then  said  out  loud  :  "  But  it  is  impos- 
sible to  conclude  an*  arrangement  of 
this  kind  in  an  off-hand  manner.  There 
must  be  an  agreement  drawn  up  and 
signed  before  witnesses." 

"  By  all  means,  my  dear  sir,  as  many 
as  you  please." 

"  But  such  formalities  are  not  easily 
accomplished  in  a  place  like  this." 

"  Then,  for  heaven's  sake,  let  us  dis- 
pense with  them!  The  case  lies  in  a 
nut-shell.  I  have  purchased  this  land 
for  the  sake  of  the  little  bijou  of  a  house 
upon  it ;  and  as  regards  the  plantation, 
I  am  much  in  the  same  position  as  a 
Milord  Anglais  I  once  heard  of,  who 
bought  Polichinelle,  and  was  surprised 
to  find,  when  he  brought  it  home,  that 
it  did  not  act  of  its  own  accord.  I 
have  used  my  best  endeavours  to  master 
the  subject.  I  have  tried  to  assume 
the  manners  of  a  planter  ;  but  chassez  le 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE! 


25 


naturel,  il  revient  au  galop,  and  mine  is 
cantering  back  as  fast  as  possible  to  its 
starting-point.  There  are  things  a  man 
can  do,  and  others  he  can't.  I  was  not 
made  for  a  colonist." 

D'Auban  was  very  near  saying, 
"What  were  you  made  for?"  but  he 
checked  the  sneering  thought.  In  the 
prime  of  life  and  full  enjoyment  of  a 
vigorous  intellect,  he  had  been  tempted 
to  despise  the  feeble  fidgetty  old  man 
before  him,  forgetting  that  the  race  is 
not  always  to  the  swift  or  the  battle 
to  the  strong.  We  sometimes  wonder 
what  part  some  particular  person  is 
sent  to  fulfil  on  earth.  He  or  she  seems 
to  our  short-sighted  view  so  insignifi- 
cant, so  incapable,  so  devoid  of  the 
qualities  we  most  admire,  and  all  the 
while,  perhaps,  what  appears  to  us  his 
or  her  deficiencies,  are  qualifications 
for  the  task  or  the  position  assigned  to 
them  by  Providence.  There  are  uses 
for  timid  spirits,  weak  frames,  and 
broken  hearts,  little  dreamed  of  by 
those  who,  in  the  pride  of  health  and 
mental  vigour,  know  little  of  their  value. 

Some  further  conversation  took  place 
between  the  neighbours,  which  ended 
by  d'Auban's  promising  to  draw  up  an 
agreement  based  on  M.  de  Chambelle's 
proposal.  It  was  further  decided  that 
they  would  take  this  paper  to  the  Mis- 
sion of  St.  Francis,  and  request  Father 
Maret  and  another  French  habitant  to 
witness  its  signature.  A  day  or  two 
afterwards  this  was  accordingly  done. 
M.  de  Chambelle  rubbed  his  hands  in  a 
transport  of  delight,  and  complimented 
Father  Maret  on  the  beauty  of  his 
church,  in  which  he  had  never  set  his 
foot.  The  missionary  was  amused  at 
hearing  himself  called  M.  1'Abbe,  and 
took  an  opportunity,  whilst  his  guest 
was  flitting  about  his  rose-bushes  like 
a  superannuated  butterfly,  to  ask  d'Au- 
ban  for  the  history  of  his  new  partner. 

"  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  own  how 
little  I  know  of  him,"  was  his  answer. 


And  then  he  gave  a  brief  account  of 
the  arrival  of  these  strangers — of  the 
purchase  of  St.  Agathe,  and  M.  de 
Chambelle's  total  inability  to  manage 
the  concession.  When  Father  Maret 
had  heard  the  particulars,  he  smiled 
and  said,  "This  partnership  is,  then, 
an  act  of  charity.  But  take  care,  my 
dear  friend,  how  you  involve  yourself 
with  these  people.  I  strongly  advise 
you  to  be  prudent.  We  have  hitherto 
been  rather  out  of  the  reach  of  adven- 
turers, but  there  seems  to  me  some- 
thing a  little  suspicious  in  the  ap- 
parent helplessness  of  this  gentleman. 
Do  not  let  pity  or  kindness  throw  you 
off  your  guard." 

"  If  he  were  to  turn  out  a  rogue, 
which  I  hardly  can  believe  possible, 
he  could  not  do  mp  any  harm.  You 
see  he  leaves  every  thing  in  my  hands. 
I  might  cheat  him,  but  he  cannot  in- 
jure me.  I  shall  feel  to  understand 
him  better  when  I  have  seen  his 
daughter.  Is  it  not  strange  her  shut- 
ting herself  up  so  entirely  ? " 

"  There  seems  to  me  something 
strange  about  the  whole  affair.  Have 
you  sent  his  cheque  to  New  Orleans  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  took  the  opportunity  of 
asking  M.  Dumont  what  he  knew 
about  him;  but  months  may  elapse, 
as  you  know,  before  I  get  an  answer." 

"  The  daughter  is,  to  my  mind,  the 
most  doubtful  feature  in  the  case.  It 
is  not  often  that  European  women  of 
good  character  come  out  to  the  colo- 
nies. Who  knows  what  this  one  may 
be  ?  It  is  not  impossible  that,  all  this 
hiding  is  only  a  trick  by  which  she 
hopes  to  pique  your  curiosity,  and  in- 
terest your  feelings.  But  here  comes 
your  friend.  Poor  old  man  !  He  cer- 
tainly does  not  look  like  an  impostor." 

The  partners  took  their  leave.  As 
they  walked  away,  it  was  impossible 
not  to  be  struck  by  the  contrast  pre- 
sented by  d'Auban's  tall  figure  and 
firm  step,  and  his  companion's  un- 


26 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


graceful  form  and  shuffling  gait,  or  to 
see  the  latter's  admiring  confiding 
manner  towards  his  companion  and 
doubt  its  sincerity.  The  priest  could 
not,  however,  divest  himself  of  a 
vague  apprehension  as  to  the  charac- 
ter and  designs  of  tne  strangers.  Ex- 
perience had  taught  him  sad  lessons 
with  regard  to  colonial  speculators, 
and  his  fatherly  affection  for  d'Auban 
made  him  suspicious  of  their  designs. 
It  was  in  Russia  that  the  intimacy  be- 
tween these  two  men  had  begun,  and 
in  America  it  had  deepened  into  Mend- 
ship.  There  was  a  difference  of  at 
least  twenty  years  between  their  ages. 
Father  Maret  was  bent  with  toil,  and 
his  countenance  bere  the  traces  of  a 
life  of  labour  and  privations.  When 
at  rest,  melancholy  was  its  character- 
istic expression,  as  if  continual  con- 
tact with  sin  and  sorrow  had  left  its 
impress  upon  it;  but  when  he  con- 
versed with  others,  it  was  with  a 
bright  and  gracious  smile.  His  step, 
though  heavy,  was  rapid,  as  that  of  a 
man  who,  weary  and  exhausted,  yet 
hastens  on  in  the  service  of  God.  His 
head  fell  slightly  forward  on  his  breast, 
and  his  hair  was  thin  and  gray,  but  in 
his  eye  there  was  a  fire,  and  in  his 
manner  and  language  an  energy  which 
did  not  betoken  decay  of  body  or 
mind. 

The  first  years  he  had  spent  in 
America  had  been  very  trying.  Till 
d'Auban's  arrival  he  had  seldom  been 
cheered  by  intercourse  with  those  who 
could  share  in  his  interests  or  his  anx- 
ieties, or  afford  him  the  mental  relief 
which  every  educated  person  finds  in 
the  society  of  educated  men.  Some 
of  the  Indian  Christians  were  models 
of  piety  and  full  of  childlike  faith  and 
amiability ;  but  there  must  always  ex- 
ist an  intellectual  gulf  between  minds 
untrained  and  uncultivated,  and  those 
which  have  been  used  from  childhood 
upward  to  live  almost  as  much  in  the 


past  as  in  the  present ;  and  this  is  even 
the  case  to  a  certain  degree  as  regards 
religion.  The  advantage  in  this  re- 
spect may  not  always  be  on  the  side 
of  civilization  and  of  a  high  amount 
of  mental  culture.  There  is  often  in 
persons  wise  unto  salvation  and  ig- 
norant of  all  else,  a  simplicity  of  faith, 
a  clear  realization  of  its  great  truths 
and  unhesitating  acceptance  of  its 
teachings,  which  may  very  well  excite 
admiration  and  something  like  envy  in 
those  whom  an  imperfect,  and  there- 
fore deceptive,  knowledge  misleads, 
and  who  are  sometimes  almost  weary 
of  the  multiplicity  of  their  own 
thoughts.  But  it  is  nevertheless  im- 
possible that  they  should  not  miss,  in 
their  intercourse  with  others,  the  power 
of  association  which  links  their  relig- 
ious belief  with  a  whole  chain  of  remi- 
niscences, and  connects  it  with  a  num- 
ber of  outlying  regions  bordering  on 
its  domain.  Viewed  in  the  light  of 
faith,  art,  science,  literature,  history, 
politics,  every  achilvement  of  genius, 
every  past  and  present  event,  every  in- 
vention, every  discovery,  has  a  pecu- 
liar significancy.  Names  become  bea- 
cons in  the  stream  of  time — signal 
lights,  bright  or  lurid  as  may  be, 
which  the  lapse  of  ages  never  extin- 
guishes. This  continued  train  of 
thought,  this  kingdom  of  association, 
this  region  of  sympathy,  is  the  growth 
of  centuries,  and  to  forego  familiarity 
with  it  one  of  the  greatest  sacrifices 
which  a  person  of  intellectual  habits 
can  make.  D'Auban's  society  and 
friendship  had  filled  up  this  void  in 
Father  Maret's  existence,  and  there 
was  another  far  greater  trial  which  his 
residence  in  this  settlement  had  tended 
to  mitigate. 

In  New  France,  as  in  all  recently- 
discovered  countries,  a  missionary's 
chief  difficulty  consisted  not  in  con- 
verting the  natives,  or  (a  greater  one) 
in  keeping  them  from  relapsing  into 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


27 


witchcraft  and  idolatry— not  in  the 
wearisome  pursuit  of  his  scattered 
sheep  over  morasses,  sluggish  streams, 
and  dreary  savannahs — but  in  the  bad 
example  set  by  the  European  settlers. 
It  was  the  hardened  irreligion,  the 
scoffing  spirit,  the  profligate  lives  of 
the  emigrants  swarming  on  the  banks 
of  the  Mississippi,  tainting  and  pol- 
luting the  forests  and  prairies  of  this 
new  Eden  with  their  vile  passions  and 
remorseless  thirst  for  gold,  which  wrung 
the  heart  of  the  Christian  priest,  and 
brought  a  blush  to  his  cheek  when  the 
Indians  asked — "Are  the  white  men 
Christians  ?  Do  they  worship  Jesus  ? " 
He  felt  sometimes  inclined  to  an- 
swer, "  No ;  their  god  is  mammon,  a 
very  hateful  idol."  To  make  his  mean- 
ing clear,  he  used  to  show  them  a  piece 
of  gold,  and  to  say  that  for  the  sake  of 
that  metal  many  a  baptized  European 
imperilled  his  immortal  soul.  The  In- 
dians of  the  Mission  got  into  the  habit 
of  calling  gold  the  white  man's  mani- 
tou,  that  is,  his  domestic  idol.  It  be- 
came, therefore,  an  immense  consolation 
to  Father  Maret  when  a  Frenchman 
came  into  the  neighbourhood  whom  he 
could  point  out  to  the  native  converts 
as  an  example  of  the  practical  results 
of  true  religion.  He  was  wont  to  say 
that  d'Auban's  goodness  and  Therese's 
virtues  made  more  converts  than  his 
sermons.  His  own  example  he,  of 
course,  counted  for  nothing.  It  was 
not,  then,  extraordinary  that  he  should 
feel  anxious  about  the  character  of  the 
new  inhabitants  of  St.  Agathe,  and 


their  probable  intimacy  with  his  friend. 
He  had  often  regretted  that  one  so  well 
fitted  for  domestic  life  and  social  enjoy- 
ments should  be  cut  off  by  circumstan- 
ces from  congenial  society.  The  amount 
of  friendly  intercourse  which  was  amply 
sufficient  for  his  own  need  of  relaxation 
could  not  be  so  for  one  whose  solitary 
existence  was  an  accident,  not  a  voca- 
tion. He  might  not  be  conscious  of  it 
as  yet,  but  with  advancing  years  the 
want  of  a  home  and  of  friends  was  sure 
to  be  more  keenly  felt.  Glad,  indeed, 
would  he  have  been  to  think  that  his 
partnership,  that  these  new  acquaintan- 
ces, were  likely  to  fill  up  this  void,  and 
to  prove  a  blessing  to  his  friend.  Never 
was  a  more  fervent  prayer  breathed  for 
another's  weal  than  that  which  rose 
from  Father  Maret's  heart  that  night 
for  the  companion  of  his  solitude. 
None  feel  more  solicitude  for  the  hap- 
piness, or  more  sympathy  with  the 
trials  of  others,  than  those  who  have 
renounced  earthly  happiness  them- 
selves. There  is  something  in  their 
sympathy  akin  to  a  mother's  love  or 
a  guardian  angel's  pity. 

Therese  met  the  priest  as  he  was 
turning  back  towards  the  village. 
After  saluting  him  in  the  Indian 
fashion,  she  said,  "The  eagle  spreads 
his  wings  over  the  nest  of  the  white 
dove.  The  strong  befriends  the  weak. 
It  is  good,  my  father." 

"  I  hope  so,"  the  black  robe  kindly 
answered,  as  he  led  the  way  into  the 
church,  where  the  people  were 
bling  for  evening  prayer. 


28 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE 


CHAPTEK    III. 


The  present  hour  repeats  upon  its  strings 
Echoes  of  some  vague  dream  we  have  forgot ; 

Dim  voices  whisper  half-remembered  things, 
And  when  we  pause  to  listen — answer  not. 

Forebodings  come,  we  know  not  how  or  whence, 
Shadowing  a  nameless  fear  upon  the  soul, 

And  stir  within  our  hearts  a  subtler  sense 
Than  light  may  read,  or  wisdom  may  control 

And  who  can  tell  what  secret  links  of  thought 
Bind  heart  to  heart  ?    Unspoken  things  are  heard, 

As  if  within  our  deepest  selves  was  brought 
The  soul,  perhaps,  of  some  unuttered  word. 

Adelaide  Proctor. 


M.  DE  CHAMBELLE,  no  longer  the 
manager  of  a  concession,  trod  the  earth 
with  a  lighter  step,  and  strolled  through 
the  plantations,  bowing  affably  to  the 
negroes  and  chatting  with  those  of  the 
labourers  who  spoke  French  or  Ger- 
man. As  to  d'Auban,  he  applied  him- 
self to  the  business  he  had  undertaken 
with  his  usual  energy  and  intelligence 
— an  additional  amount  of  labour  was 
a  boon  to  him.  He  had  "  the  frame  of 
adamant  and  soul  of  fire,"  to  which 
work  is  as  necessary  as  food  or  air. 
He  was  glad  also  to  adopt,  with  re- 
gard to  the  slaves  on  the  St.  Agathe 
estate,  the  measures  he  had  successfully 
carried  out  for  the  benefit  of  his  own 
labourers.  Though  he  had  not  yet 
seen  Madame  de  Moldau,  the  very 
thought  of  a  European  lady  such  as 
Th6rese  had  described  her  living  so 
near  him,  in  the  house  he  used  to  call 
a  folly,  seemed  to  make  a  difference  in 
his  life.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  he 
pictured  her  to  himself,  and  tried  to 
imagine  her  existence  within  those  four 
walls,  with  no  other  companion  than 
her  garrulous  old  father,  who  chattered 
as  if  he  could  keep  nothing  to  himself, 
and  yet  never  dropped  a  word  that 
threw  light  on  her  sorrow  or  her  story, 


whatever  it  was,  or  gave  the  least  clue 
to  their  past  history. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  passing 
through  the  shrubbery,  he  caught  sight 
of  her  on  the  balcony  of  the  pavilion. 
Her  head  was  thrown  back  as  if  to 
catch  the  breeze  just  beginning  to  rise 
at  the  close  of  a  sultry  day.  He  stood 
riveted  to  the  spot.  "  She  is  very  beau- 
tiful," he  said,  half  aloud,  "much  more 
beautiful  than  I  expected."  She  turned 
her  head  and  their  eyes  met,  which 
made  him  start  and  instantly  draw 
back.  He  was  distressed  at  having 
been  surprised  gazing  at  her,  but  he 
could  not  help  feeling  glad  he  had  seen 
her  at  last.  Who  was  she  like  ?  Very 
like  somebody  he  had  seen  before,  but 
he  could  not  remember  where.  "  I  am 
sure  her  face  is  not  a  new  one  to  me," 
he  thought.  "  How  intensely  blue  her 
eyes  are  !  What  a  very  peculiar-look- 
ing person  she  is !  Her  dress  is  dif- 
ferent, too,  from  any  thing  we  see  here. 
What  was  it  ?  A  black  silk  gown,  I 
think,  opening  in  front,  and  a  lace  cap 
fastened  on  each  side  with  coral  pins. 
What  a  start  she  gave  when  she  saw 
me  !  I  am  so  sorry  I  took  her  by  sur- 
prise. I  ought  of  all  things  to  have 
avoided  the  appearance  of  a  rude  vul- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


29 


gar  curiosity."  That  self-reproach  oc- 
cupied him  all  the  evening.  He  made 
it  an  excuse  to  himself  for  thinking  of 
nothing  but  Madame  de  Moldau.  He 
was  at  once  excited  and  depressed. 
All  sorts  of  fancies,  some  sad  and  some 
pleasant,  passed  through  his  mind. 
Europe  with  all  his  associations  rose 
before  him,  conjured  up  by  the  sight 
of  that  pale  woman  dressed  in  black. 

For  the  first  time  since  leaving 
France  a  vague  yearning,  half  regret, 
half  presentiment,  filled  his  heart.  Can 
we  doubt  that  there  are  such  things  as 
presentiments?  True,  we  are  some- 
times haunted  by  a  besetting  thought, 
or  we  have  an  agitating  dream,  or  we 
are  seized  by  an  unaccountable  depres- 
sion which  we  consider  as  a  forebod- 
ing of  coming  evil,  of  some  event  which, 
in  the  poet's  words,  casts  its  shadows 
before  it,  and  the  thought  passes  away, 
the  dream  fades  in  the  light  of  morn- 
ing, a  draught  of  spring's  delicious  air 
or  a  ray  of  genial  sunshine  dispels  the 
melancholy  which  a  moment  before 
seemed  incurable,  and  the  voice  which 
rang  in  our  ear  like  a  warning,  subsides 
amidst  the  busy  sounds  of  life,  leaving 
no  echo  behind  it.  True,  this  frequent- 
ly happens,  and  yet  in  spite  of  these 
deceptions,  we  cannot  altogether  dis- 
believe in  the  occasional  occurrence 
of  subtle  and  mysterious  intimations 
which  forbade  future  events,  and,  like 
whispers  from  heaven,  prepare  our  souls 
for  coming  joys  or  sorrows.  Was  it  an 
effect  of  memory,  or  a  trick  of  the 
imagination,  or  a  simple  delusion, 
which  played  the  fool  that  night  with 
d'Auban's  well-regulated  mind,  sug- 
gesting to  him  a  fantastic  resemblance 
between  the  face  he  had  seen  that  even- 
ing and  a  vision  of  his  earlier  years  ? 
Was  it  a  presentiment  of  happiness  or 
a  warning  of  evil  which  stirred  the 
calm  depths  of  his  tranquil  soul  as  he 
mused  on  days  gone  by?  He  did 
not  know ;  he  did  not  analyze  his  feel- 


ings, but  gave  himself  up  to  a  long 
reverie,  in  which,  like  in  a  drowning 
man's  dream,  the  events  of  his  life 
passed  successively  before  him  with  a 
strange  distinctness.  How  the  remem- 
brance of  our  childhood  comes  back  to 
us  as  we  advance  in  life!  We  lose 
sight  of  it  amidst  the  noise  and  excite- 
ment of  youth  and  middle  age;  but 
when  the  shades  of  evening  fall,  and 
the  busy  hum  of  voices  subsides,  and 
silence  steals  on  the  soul  as  it  spreads 
over  a  darkening  landscape,  the 
thought  returns  of  what  we  were  when 
we  started  on  that  long  journey  now 
drawing  to  a  close.  And  even  in  the 
noon- tide  of  life  there  are  seasons  when 
we  pause  and  look  back  as  d'Auban 
did  that  night.  When  the  future  as- 
sumes a  new  aspect,  and  we  dimly  fore- 
see a  change  in  our  destiny,  without 
discerning  its  form,  even  as  a  blind 
man  is  conscious  of  approach  to  an  ob- 
ject he  does  not  yet  touch  or  behold, 
a  feeling  of  this  sort  sometimes  drives 
us  back  upon  the  past,  as  to  a  friend 
left  behind,  and  well-nigh  lost  sight 
of. 

On  the  following  evening  to  the  one 
when  d'Auban  had  for  the  first  time 
seen  Madame  de  Moldau,  her  father 
walked  into  his  room  and  in  a  tone 
of  unusual  importance  and  animation 
invited  him  to  dinner  for  the  next  day. 
The  blood  mounted  into  d'Auban's 
face.  He  longed  to  accept,  but  pride 
disinclined  him  to  do  so.  After  the 
great  reluctance  she  had  evinced  to  see 
him,  he  did  not  like  to  thrust  himself 
into  her  society  by  availing  himself  of 
an  invitation  which  only  gratitude  or 
civility  had,  in  all  probability,  induced 
her  to  send.  He  accordingly  made 
some  not  very  intelligible  excuse. 

"Ah!. my  dear  friend,"  exclaimed 
M.  de  Chambelle,  "you  must  not  re- 
fuse ;  it  is  impossible  you  can  refuse." 

It  was  with  a  pained  expression  of 
countenance  that  this  remonstance  was 


30 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


made.  The  old  man  seemed  shocked 
and  hurt. 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  sir,"  said  d'Auban 
kindly,  "  my  only  reason  for  refusing 
is,  that  I  fear  my  presence  will  not  be 
acceptable  to  your  daughter,  and  per- 
haps compel  her,  as  she  did  before,  to 
keep  her  own  room." 

"Ah!  that  was  because  she  had  a 
headache.  Of  course  you  would  not 
wish  her  to  appear  if  she  was  ill." 

"Of  course  not.  I  only  wish  you 
would  not  consider  yourself  obliged  to 
invite  me ;  I  assure  you  I  do  not  expect 
it." 

"But  she  wishes  to  see  you,  and 
thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  and 
civility.  Indeed,  I  cannot  tell  her  that 
you  refuse  to  come." 

"  Well,  if  you  make  a  point  of  it,  I 
shall  be  happy  to  accept  your  kind 
invitation.  At  what  o'clock  do  you 
dine?" 

"At  one,"  answered  M.  de  Cham- 
belle;  and  then  recovering  his  spirits 
he  added,  "  Our  cuisine,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  is  of  the  New  World  school,  in 
spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  instruct  our 
Indian  vatel  in  the  mysteries  of  French 
cooking;  but  having  witnessed  the 
hermit-like  nature  of  your  repasts,  I 
am  not  afraid  of  your  despising  the 
roasted  kid  and  wild  ducks  which  the 
female  savage  has  provided  for  our 
entertainment.  We  will  add  to  it  a 
little  glass  of  *  essence  of  fire,'  as  the 
Indians  call  our  good  French  cognac. 
Well,  I  will  not  take  up  your  time 
now.  To-morrow  at  one  o'clock ;  you 
will  not  forget." 

When  he  had  reached  the  door,  M. 
de  Chambelle  turned  back  again,  and, 
laying  his  hand  on  d'Auban's  arm,  he 
said  in  a  tremulous  voice : 

"  You  will  not  be  angry  if  she  should 
change  her  mind  and  not  appear  to- 
morrow ?  Her  spirits  are  very  unequal ; 
you  don't  know  what  she  has  gone 
through." 


He  was  a  poor  creature  enough  this 
old  M.  de  Chambelle,  and  d'Auban  had 
difficulty  sometimes  in  not  despising 
the  weakness  and  frivolity  he  evinced 
in  the  midst  of  troubles,  into  which  he 
had  so  recklessly  plunged  himself;  but 
he  never  heard  him  speak  of  his  daugh- 
ter without  noticing  a  kind  of  pathos 
in  his  voice  and  manner,  which  re- 
deemed in  his  eyes  his  childishness 
and  folly,  and  softened  his  feelings 
towards  him.  He  assured  him  that  he 
would  not  take  any  thing  amiss,  and 
promised  to  be  punctual  at  the  appoint- 
ed time.  And  so  he  was ;  and  on  his 
way  to  St.  Agathe  he  kept  inwardly  re- 
proaching and  laughing  at  himself  for 
the  timidity  he  felt  at  the  thought  of 
being  introduced  to  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau,  and  at  the  fear  he  had  that  after 
all  she  would  not  appear.  When  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  pretty  fanciful  toy 
of  a  house,  a  specimen  of  European 
refinement  in  the  midst  of  the  oaks  and 
pines  of  an  American  forest,  it  no 
longer  struck  him  as  so  out  of  place  as 
it  was  wont  to  do  when  he  ridiculed 
M.  de  Harlay's  Folly,  and  blamed  its 
erection  as  the  idle  whim  of  a  Parisian's 
fancy.  The  woman  he  had  seen  sur- 
rounded by  shining  evergreens  and 
roses  in  full  blossom,  like  a  lovely  pic- 
ture framed  in  flowerets,  seemed  a  fit- 
ting inhabitant  for  this  earthly  paradise. 

It  had  never  showed  to  such  advan- 
tage, in  his  eyes  at  least,  as  on  this  day. 
The  brilliant  foliage  was  shining  in  the 
full  radiance  of  noon.  The  avenue  of 
magnolias  leading  to  the  little  rustic 
porch  was  fragrant  with  incense-like 
perfume.  Not  a  breath  stirred  the 
branches  of  the  encircling  cedars. 
Beautiful  birds,  like  winged  jewels 
flying  through  the  translucent  air,  gave 
life  and  animation  to  the  scene,  and 
insects  lazily  hovered  over  masses  of 
scented  woodbine,  their  wings  weighed 
down  with  honey,  and  their  drowsy 
hum  lulling  the  ear. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


31 


M.  de  Chambelle  was  standing  at 
the  door  looking  out  for  his  guest.  He 
seemed  more  fidgety  still  than  usual  as 
he  conducted  him  to  the  room  where 
his  daughter  usually  sat,  and  then  went, 
as  he  said,  to  inform  her  of  his  arrival. 
She  came  directly ;  and  if  d'Auban  had 
admired  her  from  a  distance,  he  now 
did  so  a  thousand  times  more.  The 
sweetness  of  her  countenance,  the  ex- 
quisite delicacy  of  her  complexion,  the 
pathetic  expression  (no  other  word 
would  express  it)  of  her  large  and  very 
blue  eyes,  surpassed  in  beauty  any  thing 
he  could  call  to  mind ;  and  yet  again 
the  feeling  came  over  him  that  it  was 
not  the  first  time  he  had  seen  that 
charming  face,  or  heard  that  sweet 
voice,  he  mentally  added,  when  she 
thanked  him  with  a  gentle  dignity  of 
manner  for  all  he  had  done  to  make 
her  comfortable  at  St.  Agathe. 

"It  is  one  of  the  loveliest  places  I 
have  ever  beheld,"  she  said. 

What  touched  him  most  was  that  he 
saw,  from  the  quivering  of  her  lip  and 
the  fluctuating  colour  of  her  cheek,  that 
she  was  making  an  effort  over  herself 
in  order  to  welcome  him.  Notwith- 
standing this  visible  emotion,  her  man- 
ner was  quiet  and  self-possessed.  He 
felt,  on  the  contrary,  as  awkward  and 
stupid  as  possible,  and  scarcely  knew 
what  to  say  in  return  for  her  acknowl- 
edgments. Man  of  the  world  as  he 
once  had  been,  he  was  quite  at  a  loss 
on  this  occasion.  She  was  such  a  dif- 
ferent person  from  what  he  might  have 
expected  to  see.  At  last  he  said,  "  My 
friend,  M.  de  Harlay,  little  imagined 
when  he  built  this  pavilion,  or  rather 
when  he  abandoned  it  two  years  ago, 
Madame,  that  it  would  hare  the  good 
fortune  to  be  so  soon  inhabited  by  a 
European  lady.  What  in  my  ignorance 
I  deemed  a  folly  has  turned  out  an  in- 
spiration. We  emigrants  are  apt  to 
build  for  ourselves  barns  or  cabins 
rather  than  houses." 


"Is  not  your  home  behind  those 
trees,  M.  d'Auban?" 

"Madame,  it  is  that  plain  square 
building  near  the  river." 

"  Oh,  I  see  it ;  near  those  trees  with 
the  large  white  flowers." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  flowers,  Madame 
deMoldau?" 

"  Could  one  venture  to  say  one  did 
not  care  about  them  ? "  She  said  this 
with  one  of  those  smiles  which  hover 
on  the  lips  without  in  the  least  altering 
the  melancholy  expression  of  the  eyes. 

"In  this  new  world,  Madame,"  he 
answered,  "may  we  not  venture  to  say 
any  thing,  even  the  truth  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  blushed,  and  said 
rather  quickly,  "  I  find  almost  as  much 
difference  between  one  flower  and  anoth- 
er as  between  different  persons.  Some 
are  beautiful  but  uninteresting,  others 
decidedly  repulsive,  and  some  without 
any  beauty  at  all  are  nevertheless  charm- 
ing. Violets,  for  instance,  and  mig- 
nonette. It  has  often  struck  me  that  a 
pretty  book  might  be  written  on  the 
characters  of  flowers." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Madame, 
not  only  about  flowers,  but  as  to  all 
the  objects  which  surround  us.  It  is 
often  difficult  to  tell  why  certain  land- 
scapes, certain  animals — nay,  certain 
faces — have  a  charm  quite  independent 
of  beauty.  It  is,  however,  easier  to  dis- 
cover what  captivates  us  in  a  human 
countenance  than  in  a  landscape  or  a 
flower." 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  there  are  secret  sym- 
pathies, mysterious  affinities,  between 
our  great  parent  nature  and  ourselves 
which  are  felt,  but  cannot  be  explain- 
ed?" 

"  Nature  is  indeed  a  teacher,  or  rather 
a  book  full  of  instruction,  but  it  is  not 
every  one  who  has  the  key  to  its  secrets." 

"  I  should  think  that  in  this  desert 
you  must  have  had  many.opportunities 
of  gaining  possession  of  this  important 
key." 


32 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


"  No  doubt  there  are  lessons  broad- 
scattered  on  the  surface  of  nature  which 
he  who  runs  may  read,  but  my  life  here 
has  been  too  busy  a  one  for  much  study 
or  thought." 

"How  long,  sir,  have  you  been  in 
this  country  ?  " 

"  Five  years." 

"  Five  years !    Almost  a  lifetime." 

D'Auban  smiled.  "That  lifetime 
has  seemed  to  me  very  short." 

"  Indeed !  Have  you  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  monotony  of  this  forest 
scenery  ?  " 

"Not  merely  accustomed,  but  at- 
tached to  it." 

"  What !  do  you  not  feel  oppressed 
by  its  death-like  stillness  ?  It  puts  me 
in  mind  of  being  becalmed  at  sea. 

Tiefe  Stille  herrscht  im  Wasser, 
Und  bekummert  sieht  der  Fischer 
Glatte  Flache  rings  umher. 
Keine  Luft  von  keiner  Seite, 
Todesstille  furchterlich ; 
In  die  ungeheure  Weite 
Beget  keine  Welle  sich. 

Do  you  understand  German,  M.  d'Au- 
ban?" 

"  Not  enough,  Madame,  to  seize  the 
sense  of  those  lines.  I  have  always 
heard  that  a  calm  at  sea  is  more  awful 
than  a  storm.  And  you  have  gone 
through  that  trial  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  it  was  horrible ;  not  a  sound, 
not  a  breeze,  not  a  ripple,  on  that 
smooth  leaden  sea  for  more  than  ten 
days ;  and  eight  hundred  emigrants  on 
board  a  crowded  vessel ! " 

"  Good  heavens,  Madame,  how  you 
must  have  suffered !  But  does  the 
solitude  of  our  grand  forests,  teeming 
as  they  do  with  animal  lif^  and  full  of 
every  variety  of  vegetable  production, 
affect  you  in  the  same  manner  ? " 

"  There  is,  I  must  confess,  a  similar- 
ity in  the  effect  both  have  upon  me." 

"We  have  sometimes  winds  here 
which  play  rough  games  with  the 


topmost  branches  of  our  evergreen 
oaks." 

"Ah,  well  do  I  know  it,"  Madame 
de  Moldau  answered,  with  one  of  her 
joyless  smiles.  "  The  very  day  we  ar- 
rived a  hurricane  almost  destroyed  our 
boat.  Simon  was  much  alarmed.  I 
suppose  you  know  him,  M.  d'Auban  ? 
He  says  he  has  the  honour  of  being 
acquainted  with  you." 

"  I  have  long  had  the  advantage  or 
the  disadvantage,  whichever  it  is,  of 
his  acquaintance.  He  is  quite  a  char- 
acter. His  boats,  such  as  they  are, 
prove  a  great  convenience  to  emi- 
grants ;  but  how  you,  Madame  de 
Moldau,  could  endure  the  hardships 
of  such  a  voyage,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  con- 
ceive." 

"  Is  there  any  thing  one  cannot  en- 
dure ? "  This  was  said  with  some  bit- 
terness. "  The  voyage  was  bad  enough," 
she  continued,  before  he  had  time  to 
answer,  "but  not  so  bad  as  the  land- 
ing. Oh,  that  first  night  in  an  Indian 
hut !  The  smell,  the  heat,  the  mos- 
quitoes, that  winged  army  of  torment- 
ors !  Is  it  because  we  are  farther  re- 
moved from  the  river  that  they  do  not 
assail  us  so  much  here  ? " 

"Partly  so,  perhaps;  but  they  al- 
ways attack  new-comers  with  extraor- 
dinary virulence." 

"  Have  you  lived  alone  all  this  time, 
M.  d'Auban?" 

"M.  de  Harlay  remained  with  me 
two  years;  and  I  often  see  Father 
Maret,  the  priest  of  the  neighbouring 
Mission.  During  the  hunting  season  I 
accompany  him  in  his  wanderings." 

"In  search  of  game?" 

"I  pursue  the  game.  He  follows 
about  his  wandering  flock  in  their  en- 
campments in  the  forests  and  near  the 
great  lakes." 

At  that  moment  M.  de  Chambelle  an- 
nounced that  dinner  was  ready.  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  rose,  and  d'Auban 
offered  to- conduct  her  to  the  hall  which 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


33 


served  as  a  dining-room.  There  was  a 
slight  hesitation  in  her  manner  which 
caused  him  hastily  to  .draw  back.  The 
colour  which  only  occasionally  visited 
her  cheek  rushed  into  it  now.  She 
held  out  her  hand  and  lightly  laid  it 
on  his.  He  felt  it  tremble,  and  became 
so  confused  that  he  hardly  knew  what 
he  was  doing.  He  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  the  best,  which  in  those  days 
meant  the  most  aristocratic,  society  in 
Europe,  and  had  often  dined  with 
princes.  How  was  it,  then,  that  in 
that  log-built  house,  sitting  between 
the  old  man,  whose  affairs  he  had  con- 
sented to  manage  out  of  sheer  compas- 
sion, and  his  young  and  gentle  daugh- 
ter, he  should  feel  so  embarrassed  ? 

As  they  sat  down  she  pointed  to  a 
sprig  of  jessamine  in  a  nosegay  on  the 
table,  and  said :  "  There  is  a  flower 
that  has  both  beauty  and  charm." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "  and  purity  and 
sweetness  also.  One  would  not  dare  to 
deal  roughly  with  so  delicate  a  flower." 

He  thought  there  was  a  likeness  be- 
tween that  white  jessamine  and  the 
woman  by  his  side. 

She  was  very  silent  during  dinner. 

M.  de  Chambelle's  eyes  were  always 
glancing  towards  her,  and  he  seemed 
distressed  at  her  eating  so  little.  Once 
he  got  up  to  change  her  plate  and  oifer 
her  some  other  dish  than  the  one  she 
had  been  helped  to.  Before  the  meal 
was  over  she  complained  of  being  tired, 
and  withdrew  to  the  sitting-room. 
During  the  time  which  elapsed 'before 
she  joined  them,  d'Auban  found  it  very 
difficult  to  attend  to  his  host's  rambling 
discourse.  His  mind  was  running  on 
the  peculiarity  of  Madame  de  Moldau's 
manner.  He  could  not  quite  satisfy 
himself  as  to  the  nature  of  this  pecu- 
liarity. Nothing  could  be  sweeter  than 
her  countenance ;  her  voice  was  charm- 
in  LC  ;  her  way  of  speaking  courteous  : 
but  there  was  at  the  same  time  some- 
thing a  little  abrupt  and  even  slightly 
3 


imperious  in  it,  which  did  not  take 
away  from  her  attractiveness,  for  it  was 
neither  unfeminine  nor  ungracious :  but 
he  could  quite  believe  what  M.  de 
Chambclle  had  said,  that  when  she  was 
bent  on  any  thing  it  was  not  easy  to 
oppose  her.  "  I  suppose  "  (he  thought) 
"  that  she  has  been  so  idolized  by  her 
father  that  she  takes  his  devotion  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  it  would  indeed 
be  extraordinary  if  he  was  not  devoted 
to  such  a  daughter.  Had  I  forgotten," 
he  asked  himself,  "  what  refined,  well- 
educated  women  are  like,  or  is  this  one 
very  superior  to  what  they  generally 
are?" 

When  at  last  they  left  the  dining- 
room  and  joined  Madame  de  Moldau 
she  made  a  sign  to  him  to  seat  himself 
by  her  side,  and,  pointing  to  the  view, 
said  with  a  smile,  "Your  beloved 
woods  and  prairies." 

"  Would,"  he  earnestly  said,  "  that  I 
might  be  so  happy  as  to  teach  you  to 
love  them." 

She  looked  steadfastly  before  her 
with  a  fixed  gaze,  but  it  did  not  seem 
to  rest  on  the  river  or  on  the  waning 
foliage.  Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes 
and  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  D'Auban 
saw  her  father  watching  her  with  pain- 
ful solicitude,  and,  not  knowing  how 
to  break  the  silence  which  ensued,  he 
turned  away  and  looked  at  the  books 
which  were  lying  on  the  table.  When 
we  are  for  any  reason  interested  about 
any  one,  how  eagerly  we  take  notice  of 
what  they  read,  and  try  in  this  way  to 
form  some  idea  of  their  tastes  and  opin- 
ions 1  Sometimes  in  a  railway  carriage 
or  on  a  bench  in  a  public  garden,  we 
see  a  person  absorbed  in  a  book,  and 
if  there  is  any  thing  about  them  which 
in  the  least  excites  our  interest,  we  long 
to  know  what  sort  of  thoughts  are 
awakened  by  the  volume  in  their  hands 
— what  feelings  it  touches — what  emo- 
tions it  excites — what  amount  of  truth 
or  of  falsehood,  of  evil  or  good,  of  fopd 


34 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


or  of  poison,  is  conveyed  in  the  pages 
so  eagerly  perused  !  What  a  wonder- 
ful thing  a  book  is  when  we  come  to 
think  of  it !  how  much  more  we  know 
of  those  we  hold  converse  with  by 
means  of  their  writings  than  of  many 
with  whose  faces  we  are  familiar,  whom 
we  have  listened  to  and  talked  to  per- 
haps for  years,  without  ever  giving  a 
real  insight  into  their  minds  or  their 
characters  !  What  deep  and  vehement 
feelings  have  been  often  stirred  up  by 
the  silent  adversaries,  the  mute  antag- 
onists we  encounter  in  the  solitude  of 
our  chambers  !  What  earnest  protests 
we  have  mentally  uttered  when  our 
faith  has  been  outraged  or  our  con- 
sciences wounded  !  What  blessings  we 
have  showered  on  the  writer  who  elo- 
quently expresses  what  we  ourselves 
have  thought  and  felt — who  defends 
with  courage  what  we  deem  sacred  and 
true — gives  a  tangible  form  to  our 
vague  imaginings,  and  raises  us  in  his 
powerful  grasp  to  the  level  of  his  own 
intellect !  What  friends  of  this  kind 
we  most  of  us  have  had,  those  at  whose 
feet  we  sat  when  the  first  dawnings  of 
intelligence  threw  a  doubtful  light  on 
our  minds — those  to  whom  we  paid  an 
almost  idolatrous  worship  in  youth — 
those  who  have  been  to  us  fathers 
though  they  knew  us  not,  teachers 
though  they  recked  not  of  us,  guides 
and  comforters  as  life  advanced,  "  com- 
panions on  its  downward  way  ! " 

The  books  on  Madame  de  Moldau's 
table  were  the  "  Maxims  of  La  Roche- 
foucauld," "Plutarch's  Lives,"  a  vol- 
ume of  Corneille's  Tragedies,  and  a 
German  translation  of  the  Psalms. 

"  Is  this  your  travelling  library,  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  ? "  d'Auban  asked,  for 
the  purpose  of  breaking  a  silence  which 
was  becoming  awkward. 

"  About  the  whole  of  it,  I  think,"  was 
her  answer.  "  It  is  impossible  to  travel 
with  many  luxuries,  not  even  intellec- 
tual ones." 


"  Would  it  be  impertinent  to  ask  if 
choice  or  chance  influenced  their  selec- 
tion?" 

"  Oh,  chance  decided  it,  like  every 
thing  else  in  one's  fate." 

"  Surely  you  do  not  think  that  the 
world  is  governed  by  chance  ? "  d'Au- 
ban exclaimed. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  used  the 
word  providence,"  Madame  de  Moldau 
answered  in  a  careless  tone. 

D'Auban  could  not  repress  a  sigh. 
"  It  would  be  so  dreadful,"  he  gently 
said,  "  to  suffer,  and  think  it  was  the 
result  of  accident."  He  had  taken  up 
the  volume  of  German  Psalms  and  was 
turning  over  its  pages.  Madame  de 
Moldau  saw  it  in  his  hands,  and  gave  a 
rapid  anxious  look  at  her  father,  who 
jumped  up,  snatched  the  book  from 
him,  and,  rushing  to  the  window, 
pretended  to  kill  an  insect  with  it. 
"These  mosquitoes  are  dreadfully  trou- 
blesome," he  cried.  "I  really  must 
get  a  net  or  something  to  hang  up 
against  this  window  ; "  and  he  hurried 
out  of  the  room,  with  the  volume  in 
his  hand.  • 

"  If  any  of  my  books  could  amuse 
you,  Madame  de  Moldau,"  d'Auban 
said,  "  I  should  be  only  too  happy  if 
you  would  make  use  of  my  little  library. 
I  have  thirty  or  forty  volumes  at  my 
house.  Nothing  very  new,  but  most 
them  worthy  of  more  than  one  perusal." 

"You  are  very  kind.  Perhaps  you 
will  allow  me  some  day  to  look  at 
them  ?  Have  you  seen  this  volume  of 
Corneille's  Tragedies?  I  like  them 
much  better  than  Racine's." 

"  I  saw  the  Cid  acted  at  St.  Peters- 
burg some  years  ago.  The  Czar  pre- 
ferred Corneille  to  all  other  dramatic 
writers." 

"  Buffoonery  and  low  comedy  are 
supposed  to  be  what  he  likes  best,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  I  suppose  that  in  tastes  as  well  as  in 
other  things  extremes  sometimes  meet. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


35 


And  how  difficult  it  is  to  form  a  just 
estimate  of  that  extraordinary  man's 
character ! " 

"  M.  de  Chambelle  tells  me  you  were 
at  one  time  in  his  service.  You  must 
have  admired  his  genius,  his  great  qual- 
ities?" 

"I  admired  the  sovereign  who,  al- 
most single-handed,  changed  the  face 
of  an  empire,  the  man  whose  energy 
and  perseverance  effected  in  a  few  years 
the  work  of  centuries;  but  a  nearer 
acquaintance  with  this  great  barbarian 
completely  changed  the  nature  of  this 
admiration.  Wonder  remained,  but 
unaccompanied  with  respect.  How 
can  one  respect  a  man  who  is  the  slave 
of  his  own  passions,  whose  remorseless 
cruelty  and  coarse  brutality  are  a  dis- 
grace to  human  nature,  and  who  is 
wanting  in  some  of  its  noblest  attri- 
butes ?  The  religious  element  does  not 
seem  to  exist  in  him.  He  respects 
neither  God  nor  man." 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  can  be  very 
kind — that  he  often  shows  good  and 
generous  feelings.  I  believe  there  are 
people  who  have  reasons  to  be  deeply 
grateful  to  him.  It  is  true  that  he  has 
no  religion,  but  there  is,  perhaps,  noth- 
ing very  uncommon  in  that.  He  goes 
through  the  forms  of  his  Church.  This 
is  all  that  is  expected  from  persons  in 
his  position." 

"  Had  you  been  acquainted  with  the 
details  of  the  Czar's  life,  Madame  de 
Moldau,  with  its  degrading  immo- 
rality and  its  brutal  coarseness,  you 
would  not  be  deluded  into  admira- 
tion by  the  brilliant  side  of  his  charac- 
ter." 

"  I  did  not  speak  of  what  was  bril- 
liant, but  of  what  I  have  heard  of  his 
kindness." 

"  He  was  kind  to  me,"  d'Auban  said, 
— "  very  kind  to  me  once.  I  had  hoped 
to  devote  my  life  to  his  service.  I  tried 
to  look  on  the  grand  side  of  his  chardc- 
ter,  on  the  prodigious  results  of  his 


genius.  I  entered  into  his  views,  felt 
proud  of  his  notice." 

"And  what  happened  then?  You 
lost  his  favour  ? " 

"No;  he  did  not  change;  I  did. 
Ah !  Madame,  there  are  moments  in  a 
man's  life  he  cannot  speak  of  without 
emotion." 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  intrude  on 
your  recollections,"  said  Madame  de 
Moldau.  "  In  this  new  world  the  past 
should  not  be  reverted  to." 

"  Why  so,  Madame  de  Moldau  ?  Be- 
cause we  have  left  behind  us  country 
and  friends,  because  we  are  cut  off 
from  old  associations,  and  our  lot  is 
cast  amidst  new  interests  and  new 
scenes,  why  should  we  bury  in  silence 
all  past  reminiscences,  and  make  graves 
of  our  memories  ? " 

"That  was  not  my  meaning,"  she 
said,  "  but  only  that  I  did  not  wish  to 
ask  indiscreet  questions." 

"  You  need  have  no  fears  of  that 
kind,"  d'Auban  answered,  with  a  frank 
smile.  "  My  life  has  been  full  of  vicissi- 
tudes, but  there  have  been  no  secrets 
in  it." 

A  burning  blush  overspread  Madame 
de  Moldau's  face ;  she  coloured  to  the 
very  roots  of  her  hair.  M.  de  Cham- 
belle,  who  was  slaughtering  mosquitoes, 
turned  round  and  saw  that  she  looked 
agitated.  He  said  a  few  words  to  her 
in  German.  She  nodded  assent,  and 
then  apologized  to  d'Auban  for  leaving 
him.  "  I  am  very  tired,"  she  said ; 
"but  it  is  not  you  who  have  tired  me," 
she  quickly  added ;  "  only  I  have  been 
out  of  the  habit  of  talking  lately.  Are 
we  not  very  silent  people,  my  dear  old 
father  ? " 

M.  de  Chambelle,  as  he  opened  the 
door  for  her,  answered  this  question 
by  a  sad  and  wistful  look,  and  an 
inclination  of  the  head. 

During  the  ensuing  hour  d'Auban 
thought  he  did  not  deserve  to  be 
"  taxed  for  silence,"  but  rather  checked 


36 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


for  speech.  He  chattered  with  the 
happy  talent  some  people  possess  of 
talking  immensely,  without  leaving  on 
the  listener's  mind  any  definite  idea  as 
to  what  they  have  been  saying.  Twice 
during  that  time  his  daughter  sent  for 
him,  and  on  both  occasions  he  instant- 
ly obeyed  the  summons. 

As  he  accompanied  his  guest  on  his 
way  home  he  said  to  him :  "I  wish  we 
could  find  a  French  or  German  servant 
to  wait  on  Madame  de  Moldau.  You 
do  not,  I  suppose,  know  of  such  a  per- 
son?" 

"  No,  indeed,  I  do  not.  There  are  so 
few  respectable  European  women  in 
these  settlements.  I  wonder  if  the 
bargeman  Simon's  daughter  could  be 
induced  to  accept  the  situation  ? " 

"  What !  the  black-eyed  young  lady 
who  acts  as  stewardess  during  the 
voyage  ?  My  dear  sir,  she  would  in- 
deed be  a  treasure.  Madame  de  Moldau 
took  quite  a  fancy  to  her,  I  remember. 
Pray  open  negotiations  with  that  young 
individual." 

"As  soon  as  Maitre  Simon  returns 
from  the  Arkansas,  where  he  went  with 
some  travellers  a  few  days  ago,  I  will 
see  what  can  be  done." 

During  the  following  week  d'Auban 
sent  game  and  fish  and  fruit  and  flow- 
ers to  St.  Agathe,  and  received  in  re- 
turn courteous  messages,  and  at  last  a 
little  note  from  Madame  de  Moldau. 

"  Sm :  I  see  you  mean  to  compel  me 
to  admire  the  forests,  fields,  and  streams 
which  furnish  the  luxuries  you  send 
me.  I  am  obliged  to  admit  that  na- 
ture has  lavished  her  gifts  on  this 
favoured  region,  and  that  if  its  aspect 
is  mountainous  its  productions  are  full 
of  beauty  and  variety.  Accept  my 
best  thanks,  and  the  assurance  of  my 
sincere  regard.  C.  DE  M." 

He  sometimes  strolled  by  the  river- 
side and  through  the  neighbouring 


thickets,  in  the  hope  that  the  lady  of 
St.  Agathe  would  resume  her  evening 
walks  in  the  direction  of  the  village, 
and  that  he  might  find  an  opportunity 
of  introducing  her  to  Father  Maret 
and  Therese.  But  she  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  taste  for  walking,  and  he  had 
not  seen  her  since  the  day  he  dined 
there,  neither  in  the  garden  nor  at  the 
window.  But  one  morning  M.  de 
Chambelle  called  and  asked  him  to 
pay  his  daughter  a  visit  without  letting 
her  know  that  he  had  begged  him  to 
do  so. 

"  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure," 
he  answered ;  "  but  I  am  sure  Madame 
de  Moldau,  though  she  is  very  kind 
and  civil  to  me,  much  prefers  my  stay- 
ing away." 

He  would  have  been  very  sorry  not 
to  be  contradicted,  for  he  longed  to  be 
sitting  again  in  the  little  drawing-room 
at  St.  Agathe;  watching  the  varying 
expression  of  the  lady's  most  expres- 
sive countenance,  and,  as  it  were,  feel- 
ing his  way  as  he  approached  any  new 
subject  of  conversation.  A  white  jessa- 
mine encircled  by  a  fringe  of  sensitive 
leaves  would  be  a  fitting  emblem,  he 
thought,  of  the  mistress  of  St.  Agathe. 
He  had  once  amused  himself  in  by- 
gone years  in  overcoming  the  shyness 
of  a  beautiful  Italian  greyhound,  one 
of  those  delicate  creatures  who  are 
afraid  of  the  notice  they  court,  and 
shrink  from  a  caress  as  from  a  blow. 
He  remembered  how  pleased  he  was 
the  first  time  Flora  condescended  to 
take  a  bit  of  biscuit  from  his  hand, 
and  then  laid  on  his  arm  her  slender 
snow-white  paw,  as  a  hint  she  wanted 
more.  He  could  not  help  smiling  at 
the  analogy  between  those  efforts  to 
win  the  good  graces  of  the  four-footed 
beauty,  and  his  present  endeavours  to 
induce  Madame  de  Moldau  to  feel  at 
her  ease  with  him.  He  was  pleased 
when  M.  de  Chambelle  said,  "  If  she 
once  gets  used  to  your  society,  it  will 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


37 


become  an  enjoyment  to  her,  and  per- 
haps you  would  be  able  to  persuade  her 
not  to  sit  all  day  at  the  window  gaz- 
ing on  the  view,  and  never  uttering  a 
word.  Is  there  nothing  we  could  do 
to  amuse  her  ? " 

The  notion  of  amusement  in  the  kind 
of  life  they  were  leading  was  a  novel 
one  to  d'Auban,  and  he  was  not  pre- 
pared to  answer  the  question  at  once. 
But  after  thinking  a  little  he  said : 

"If  she  cared  for  fine  scenery  we 
might  row  her  in  my  boat  to  the  Falls 
some  way  up  the  river — to  what  the 
Indians  call  the  Minne  Haha  or  Laugh- 
ing Water,  or  perhaps  it  might  interest 
her  to  form  a  collection  of  birds  at  St. 
Agathe.  You  might  have  an  aviary 
here  without  much  trouble.  But  as 
she  does  not  care  for  flowers,  neither 
would  birds  be  any  pleasure  to  her  I 
am  afraid,  nor  scenery  either." 

"She  used  to  like  flowers.  Never 
mind  what  she  says ;  I  see  she  is  pleased 
when  you  send  her  a  nosegay.  And 
the  fish  yesterday  was  very  good.  She 
dined  upon  it,  and  thought  it  the  best 
thing  she  had  tasted  since  we  came 
here.  I  wish  she  would  sometimes 
take  a  walk.  She  walked  too  much 
when  we  were  at  the  German  village, 
but  now  she  says  it  tires  her." 

"Would  she  ride?" 


"  Ah !  she  used  to  delight  in  it ;  but 
how  could  we  get  a  suitable  horse  for 
her?" 

"  I  think  one  of  mine  would  carry 
her  very  well  if  we  could  procure  a 
side-saddle.  There  are  beautiful  glades 
in  the  forest.  We  might  accompany 
her  on  foot,  or  I  would  lend  you  my 
pony." 

M.  de  Chambelle's  face  lengthened  at 
this  suggestion.  "I  am  but  a  poor 
horseman,"  he  said.  "Still,  if  she 
wished  it.  But  do  you  think  we  could 
catch  a  squirrel  ?  I  saw  her  watching 
one  yesterday,  when  we  were  sitting  at 
the  window." 

"  Your  young  negro  would  be  charm- 
ed, I  dare  say,  to  attempt  its  cap- 
ture." 

"Ah!  I  dare  say  he  would.  And 
will  you  come  and  see  her  to-day  ? " 

"  I  am  obliged  to  visit  a  distant  part 
of  your  plantation ;  you  have  doubled 
my  business,  you  know." 

"  Oh  dear,  how  tired  you  must  be !  " 
exclaimed  M.  de  Chambelle  in  a  com- 
passionate tone. 

D'Auban  laughed. 

"Not  at  all,  I  assure  you.  I  only 
meant  that  I  was  not  much  burthened 
with  leisure ;  but  if  I  am  not  too  late, 
I  will  do  myself  the  honour  of  calling 
at  St.  Agathe  on  my  way  home." 


38 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


CHAP TEE    IY. 


Oh !  deep  is  a  wounded  heart,  and  strong 
A  voice  that  cries  against  mighty  wrong ; 
And  full  of  death,  as  a  hot  wind's  blight, 
Doth  the  ire  of  a  crusned  affection  light. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

Oh !  there  never  was  yet  so  pretty  a  thing 
By  racing  river  or  bubbling  spring — 
Nothing  that  ever  so  merrily  grew         ,  ^ 
Up  from  the  ground  when  the  skies  were  blue- 
Nothing  so  fresh,  nothing  so  free, 
As  thou — my  wild,  wild  cherry-tree. 

Barry  Cornwall. 

The  blessing  fell  upon  her  soul: 

Her  angel  by  her  side 
Knew  that  the  hour  of  grace  was  come ; 

Her  soul  was  purified.  Adelaide  Proctor. 


business  was  quickly  de- 
spatched that  day.  He  galloped  back 
across  the  prairie  faster  than  usual,  and 
dismounting  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  of 
St.  Agathe,  he  left  his  horse  to  make 
his  way  home,  and  walked  to  the  pa- 
vilion. The  heat  had  been  oppressive, 
but  a  refreshing  breeze  was  now  begin- 
ning to  stir  the  leaves  and  to  ripple 
the  surface  of  the  river.  The  first  thing 
he  saw  on  approaching  the  house  was 
M.  de  Chambelle  and  his  ally  Sambo 
carrying  a  couch  across  the  lawn.  They 
placed  it  in  the  shade  of  some  wide- 
spreading  trees,  and  the  former  beck- 
oned to  him  to  join  them. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  nosegay ! "  he 
exclaimed.  "Run,  Sambo,  run,  and 
get  a  vase  filled  with  water  and  a  little 
table  from  the  parlour.  Your  bouquet 
will  give  an  air  de  fete,  dear  M.  d'Au- 
ban,  to  our  salon  cPete.  Look  what  a 
magnificent  dome  of  verdure  and  what 
a  soft  mossy  carpet  we  have  got  here. 
She  is  coming  in  a  moment  to  breathe 
a  little  fresh  air.  It  has  been  so  hot  to- 
day." 

He  gave  a  delighted  look  at  his  little 


arrangements,  and  then  said  he  would 
fetch  his  daughter ;  but  when  half-way 
to  the  house  he  turned  back  to  whisper 
to  d'Auban.  "  She  will  not  care  about 
the  birds,  I  think ;  but  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  she  was  to  allow  herself  to 
be  rowed  in  the  boat  some  day.  She 
said  Laughing  Water  was  a  pretty  name 
for  a  waterfall."  Then  he  went  off 
again,  and  d'Auban  sat  down  on  the 
grass,  musing  over  the  half-provoking, 
half-amusing  manner  in  which  M.  de 
Chambelle  presupposed  his  interest  and 
enlisted  his  services  in  his  daughter!s 
behalf.  "The  poor  old  man,"  he 
thought,  "  seems  to  take  it  for  granted 
every  one  must  share  his  infatuation." 
But  when  she  appeared  on  the  lawn, 
and  he  was  greeted  by  her  beautiful 
smile  and  heard  again  the  sound  of  her 
sweet  voice,  the  ungracious  feeling  van- 
ished. He  no  longer  wondered;  on 
the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  him  quite 
natural  that  he  and  every  one  else  in 
the  world  should  be  expected  to  pay 
her  homage.  She  sat  down  and  said 
to  her  father,  "  Will  you  get  a  chair  for 
M.  d'Auban?" 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


39 


"  Not  for  the  world,"  d'Auban  cried ; 
"  the  grass  is  my  favourite  seat.  But 
where  will  you  sit,  M.  de  Chambelle  ? " 
he  asked  in  rather  a  pointed  manner. 

She  blushed  a  little  and  made  room 
for  her  father  by  her  side ;  but  he  said 
he  would  do  like  M.  d'Auban  and  sit 
on  the  grass.  After  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  about  the  plantation  which 
they  had  just  purchased,  Madame  de 
Moldau  asked  him  to  fetch  her  fan 
which  she  had  left  in  the  verandah. 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,"  she  then  said, 
addressing  d'Auban,  "that  you  have 
undertaken  for  our  sakes  a  heavy 
amount  of  labour." 

"  Madame,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  not 
afraid  of  labour,  and  if  I  can  succeed 
'in  furthering  your  interests  and  reliev- 
ing you  from  anxiety,  I  shall  be  amply 
repaid  for  my  exertions.  May  I  hope 
that  you  are  becoming  reconciled  to 
this  new  world,  which  must  have  seem- 
ed to  you  so  desolate  at  first  ?  Are  you 
beginning  to  take  an  interest  in  its 
natural  beauties,  and  to  think  you  could 
find  happiness  in  this  solitude  ?  " 

"  What  pleases  me  most  in  it  is  its 
solitude,  and  I  do  not  think  of  the  fu- 
ture at  all.  Is  not  that  what  moralists 
say  is  wisdom,  M.  d'Auban  ? " 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile. 
"The  Bible  teaches  us  that  morality. 
But  man  cannot  live  without  hope, 
earthly  or  heavenly." 

"  I  don't  think  so,  or  I  should  have 
died  long  ago."  These  last  words  were 
uttered  in  so  low  a  voice  that  he  did 
not  hear  them,  and  then,  as  if  to  change 
the  subject,  she  said :  "  Nothing  could 
have  been  so  advantageous  to  my  poor 
father  as  this  partnership  with  you. 
He  has  not,  I  suppose,  the  least  idea  of 
business  ? " 

"Not  much,  Madame.  But  he  fur- 
nishes capital,  an  important  item." 

Madame  de  Moldau  coloured  as  if 
about  to  say  something  which  cost  her 


an  effort.  "Are  you  sure,  M.  d'Auban, 
that  you  have  not  done  yourself  an 
injustice — that  your  agreement  with 
him  is  quite  a  fair  one?  I  know  he 
would  not  take  advantage  of  your  kind- 
ness, but  he  might  not  know — " 

"You  need  have  no  fears  on  this 
point,  Madame.  The  agreement  is  a 
perfectly  reasonable  one.  I  assure  you 
that  we  colonists  are  very  sharp-sighted 
about  our  interests." 

"Then  I  am  satisfied;"  and  she  fell 
into  one  of  the  dreamy  reveries  which 
seemed  habitual  to  her. 

He  interrupted  it  by  saying,  "  May  I 
venture,  Madame,  to  ask  you  the  same 
question  you  put  to  me  just  now  ?  What 
have  you  been  doing  to-day  ? " 

"  Only  what  Italians  say  it  is  sweet 
to  do — nothing." 

"  And  do  you  find  it  sweet  ? " 

"  Not  in  the  German  settlement,  but 
here  I  rather  like  it." 

"You  must  want  rest  after  your 
dreadful  voyage.  I  wonder  you  had 
the  courage  to  undertake  it." 

"  I  am  not  much  afraid  of  any  thing ; " 
and  then,  as  if  wishing  once  more  to 
turn  the  conversation  into  another  chan- 
nel, she  said,  "I  interrupted  you  the 
other  day  when  you  were  about  to  tell 
me  why  you  left  Russia.  I  should  very 
much  like  to  hear  what  induced  you 
to  do  so." 

"  I  have  seldom  spoken  of  the  cir- 
cumstances which  compelled  me  to  it. 
When  first  I  returned  to  France,  my 
feelings  on  the  subject  were  too  acute, 
and  here  you  can  already  perceive  that 
there  is  scarcely  any  one  with  whom 
intimate  conversation  is  possible.  I 
had  almost  forgotten,  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau, what  it  is  to  converse  with  a  lady 
of  cultivated  mind  and  refined  manners, 
and  you  can  scarcely  conceive  what  a 
new  pleasure  it  is  to  one  who  for  five 
years  has  lived  so  much  alone,  or  with 
uncongenial  companions." 

"  I  can  believe  it,"  she  said  in  a  low 


40 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


voice.  "  It  is  not  the  heart  only  which 
has  need  of  sympathy.  The  mind  also 
sometimes  craves  for  it." 

Her  father  returned  at  that  moment 
with  the  fan.  "  Shall  I  fan  you  ? "  he 
asked  as  she  held  out  her  hand  for 
it. 

"  No,  thank  you.  There  is  more  air 
now.  But  will  you  write  that  letter 
we  were  talking  about  just  now  ?  M. 
d'Auban  will  call  you  if  I  should  want 
any  thing ;  but  as  the  barge  may  go 
this  evening,  it  ought  to  be  ready." 

"  Of  course  it  ought,"  answered  M. 
de  Chambelle,  and  again  he  shuffled 
away  with  as  much  alacrity  as  before. 

Madame  de  Moldau  followed  him 
with  her  eyes  and  said,  "  What  a  weight 
you  have  taken  off  his  mind,  M.  d'Au- 
ban !  He  is  quite  another  man  since 
you  have  undertaken  our  affairs." 

"How  devotedly  he  loves  you," 
d'Auban  said  with  much  feeling. 

"  He  is  indeed  devotedly  attached  to 
me ;  no  words  can  do  justice  to  what 
his  kindness  has  been."  As  she  ut- 
tered these  words,  Madame  de  Moldau 
leant  back  her  head  against  the  cushion 
and  closed  her  eyes.  But  tears  forced 
their  way  through  the  closed  eye- 
lids. 

D'Auban  gazed  silently  at  those 
trickling  tears,  and  wondered  whence 
they  flowed.  Were  they  bitter  as  the 
waters  of  Marah,  or  did  they  give  evi- 
dence of  a  grief  too  sacred  to  be  in- 
vaded ?  He  ventured  to  say  in  a  very 
low  voice,  "  You  have  suffered  a  great 
deal,"  but  she  either  did  not  or  pre- 
tended not  to  hear  him. 

"  You  were  going  to  tell  me  why  you 
left  Russia,"  she  observed,  in  a  some- 
what abrupt  tone. 

He  felt  that  the  best  way  of  winning 
her  confidence  would  be  to  be  open  him- 
self with  her  as  to  his  own  history  and 
feelings. 

"  My  prospects  at  the  court  of  Rus- 
sia," he  began,  "were  in  every  way 


promising  ;  I  had  reason  to  believe 
that  the  emperor  was  favourably  dis- 
posed towards  me.  General  Lefort  was 
kindness  itself.  I  had  lately  been  ap- 
pointed to  the  command  of  a  regiment. 
I  must  tell  you  that  some  time  after  my 
arrival  at  St.  Petersburg,  I  had  made 
an  acquaintance  with  a  young  Russian 
lady  whose  father  had  a  place  at  Court. 
Her  name  was  Anna  Vladislava.  She 
was  handsome — I  thought  so,  at  least 
— and  at  the  same  time  was  full  of 
genius,  wit,  and  youthful  impetuosity. 
Hers  was  a  fiery  nature  which  had 
never  known  much  control.  She  was 
fanatically  attached  to  the  customs  and 
traditions  of  her  country.  We  dis- 
agreed about  every  thing,  religion,  pol- 
itics, books.  We  never  met  but  we 
quarrelled.  I  was  one  of  those  foreign- 
ers whom,  as  a  class,  she  held  in  ab- 
horrence, and  yet,  strange  to  say,  an 
attachment  sprang  up  between  us. 
The  fearless  independence  of  her  char- 
acter attracted  me.  It  was  a  refresh- 
ing- contrast  with  the  servile,  cringing 
spirit  of  the  Czar's  Court.  She  en- 
deavoured to  convert  me  to  the  ortho- 
dox religion,  as  it  is  called"  (a  faint 
scornful  smile  curled  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau's  lip),  "  and  used  to  get  exasper- 
ated at  my  obduracy.  Still  in  the 
height  of  our  disputes  we  behaved  to 
each  other  as  enemies,  who  were  to  be 
one  day  even  more  than  friends.  There 
was  a  mutual  understanding  between 
us,  but  no  open  engagement ;  of  mar- 
riage we  did  not  venture  to  speak. 
It  would  have  endangered  her  father's 
position  and  prospects,  and  my  own 
also,  to  have  acknowledged  such  an 
intention.  I  had  been  given  to  un- 
derstand that  my  imperial  master 
had  fixed  upon  a  wife  for  me,  and 
to  have  chosen  one  myself  would 
have  been  a  mortal  offence ;  but  we 
often  met,  and  though  our  opinions 
continued  as  dissimilar  as  ever,  there 
were  points  of  sympathy  in  our  char- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


41 


acters,  and  our  mutual  attachment  in- 
creased. 

"  I  had  sometimes  been  a  little  anx- 
ious about  Anna's  freedom  of  speech. 
She  allowed  herself  openly  to  inveigh 
against  the  Czar's  conduct,  and  to 
express  her  dislike  to  his  innovations. 
It  was  with  a  kind  of  natural  eloquence 
peculiar  to  her  that  she  was  wont  to 
hold  forth  about  the  old  Muscovite  tra- 
ditions and  the  deteriorating  influence 
of  foreign  manners  and  habits  on  the 
spirit  of  a  nation.  Poor  Anna !  poor 
bright  and  careless  child  !  I  remember 
asking  her  if  she  admired  the  national 
custom  of  husbands  beating  their  wives, 
typified  by  the  whip,  which  formed 
part  of  a  bride's  trousseau.  I  see  before 
me  her  flashing  smile.  I  hear  her  eager 
defence  of  that  trait  of  patriarchal  sim- 
plicity. *  A  Russian  woman,'  she  said, 
4  gloried  in  submission,  and  looked 
upon  her  husband  as  her  master  and 
her  lord.'  How  little  she  looked  for 
bondage,  and  yet  I  do  believe  she 
would  have  borne  any  tiling  from  one 
she  loved.  But  insult,  shame,  and  tor- 
ture. .  .  . "— d'Auban  paused  an  in- 
stant. Madame  de  Moldau  was  listen- 
ing to  him,  he  felt  it,  with  intense 
interest.  He  want  on:  "I  used  to 
comfort  myself  by  the  thought  that 
the  wild  sallies  of  so  young  a  girl  could 
not  bring  her  into  serious  trouble,  and 
I  was  not  aware  of  the  extent  to  which 
her  imprudence  was  carried.  When 
quite  a  little  child  she  had  been  taken 
notice  of  by  the  Princess  Sophia,  the 
Czar's  sister,  and  had  retained  a  grate- 
ful recollection  of  her  kindness.  She 
considered  this  Princess  as  a  martyr  to 
the  cause  of  Holy  Russia,  and  always 
spoke  in  indignant  terms  of  her  long 
imprisonment.  During  a  lengthened 
absence  I  made  from  St.  Petersburg 
she  became  intimate  with  some  of  this 
ambitious  woman's  friends,  and  was 
employed  to  convey  letters  to  her 
agents.  .  The  Czar's  sister  was  continu- 


ally intriguing  against  her  brother  and 
striving  to  draw  the  nobles  into  her 
schemes.  My  poor  Anna  was  made  a 
tool  of  by  this  party;  a  plot  was 
formed,  and  discovered  by  the  Em- 
peror. He  was  once  more  seized  by 
the  mad  fury  which  possessed  him  at 
the  time  of  the  Strelitz  revolt,  and 
which  caused  him  to  torture  his  re- 
bellious subjects  with  his  own  hands, 
to  insult  them  in  their  agonies,  and 
plunge  into  excesses  of  barbarity  sur- 
passing every  thing  on  record,  even  in 
the  annals  of  heathen  barbarity " 

Madame  de  Moldau  raised  herself 
from  her  reclining  posture,  and  ex- 
claimed, with  burning  cheeks  and  some 
emotion : 

"  Oh,  M.  d'Auban,  what  violent  lan- 
guage you  use  !  State  necessity  some- 
times requires,  for  the  suppression  of 
rebellion,  measures  at  which  humanity 
shudders,  but — " 

"  Ah !  I  had  often  said  that  to  my- 
self and  to  others — often  tried  to  pal- 
liate these  atrocities  by  specious  rea- 
sonings. I  had  made  light  of  the  suf- 
ferings of  others.  Time  and  distance 
marvellously  blunt  the  edge  of  indigna- 
tion. Sophistry  hardens  the  heart 
towards  the  victims,  and  we  at  last 
excuse  what  once  we  abhorred.  But 
when  cruelty  strikes  home,  when  the 
blow  falls  on  our  own  heart,  when  the 
iron  is  driven  into  our  own  soul,  then 
we  know,  then  we  feel,  then  comes  the 
frightful  temptation  to  curse  and  to 
kill.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  I  tire,  I  agitate 
you — you  look  pale." 

"  Never  mind  me.  What  hap- 
pened ? " 

"  When  I  returned  to  St.  Petersburg, 
this  was  the  news  that  met  me.  The 
girl  I  loved,  and  whom  I  had  left  gay 
as  a  bird  and  innocent  as  a  child — she 
who  had  never  known  shame  or  suffer- 
ing— she  who  had  been  led  astray  by 
others — was  dead:  and  oh,  my  God, 
what  a  death  was  hers ! " 


42 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


"Was  she  put  to  death?"  faintly 
asked  Madame  de  Moldau. 

"No,  she  was  not  condemned  to 
death.  This  would  have  been  mercy 
to  one  like  her.  She  was  scourged  by 
the  executioner,  and,  had  she  survived, 
was  to  be  married  to  a  common  soldier, 
and  sent  to  Siberia.  But  first  reason 
and  then  life  gave  way  under  the  shame 
and  horror  of  her  doom.  The  proud 
wild  heart  broke,  and  my  poor  Anna 
died  raving  mad.  Her  father  was 
banished,  and  the  house  which  had 
been  a  home  to  me  I  found  desolate  as 
a  grave." 

"You  returned  immediately  to 
France  ? " 

"My  first  impulse — a  frantic  one — 
was  to  take  the  papers  I  had  brought 
from  the  Crimea  to  the  Czar,  and  to 
stab  him  to  the  heart.  May  God  for- 
give me  the  thought,  soon  disowned, 
soon  repented  of!  It  was  a  short  mad- 
ness, wrestled  with  and  overcome  on 
my  knees,  but  when  it  had  passed 
away  nothing  remained  to  me  but  to 
quit  the  country  as  quickly  and  as  se- 
cretly as  possible.  I  knew  I  could  not 
endure  to  see  the  Emperor ;  to  feel  his 
hand  laid  familiarly  as  it  had  often  been 
on  my  shoulder,  or  to  witness  his  vio- 
lence and  coarse  pleasantry,  would  have 
been  torture.  I  feigned  illness,  dis- 
posed of  my  property,  and  effected  my 
escape." 

"  And  how  soon  afterwards  did  you 
come  here  ? " 

"About  a  year." 

There  was  a  pause.  D'Auban  felt  a 
little  disappointed  that  Madame  de 
Moldau  made  no  comment  on  his  story. 
The  next  time  she  spoke,  it  was  to  say 
— "I  wonder  if  suffering  softens  or 
hardens  the  heart  ? " 

"  I  suppose  that,  like  the  heat  of  the 
sun  on  different  substances,  it  hardens 
some  and  softens  others.  But  the  more 
I  live,  the  more  clearly  I  see  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  talk  of  suffering  and  happi- 


ness without  saying  what  sounds  like 
nonsense.'' 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  What  I  mean  is  this :  that  there  is 
very  little  happiness  or  suffering  irre- 
spectively of  the  temper  of  mind  or  the 
physical  constitution  of  individuals.  I 
have  seen  so  many  instances  of  persons 
miserable  in  the  possession  of  what 
would  be  generally  considered  as 
happiness,  and  others  so  happy  in  the 
midst  of  acknowledged  evils,  such  as 
sickness,  want,  and  neglect,  that  my 
ideas  have  quite  changed  since  I 
thought  prosperity  and  happiness  and 
adversity  and  unhappiness  were  sy- 
nonymous terms." 

"  Could  you  tell  me  of  some  of  the 
instances  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  could  relate  to  you  many  instan- 
ces of  the  happy,  amidst  apparent — 
aye,  and  real  suffering  too.  It  is  not 
quite  so  easy  to  penetrate  into  the 
hearts  of  the  prosperous  and  place  a 
finger  on  the  secret  bruise.  But  has 
not  your  observation,  Madame  de 
Moldau,  furnished  you  with  such  ex- 
amples ? " 

"  Perhaps  so — are  you  happy  ? " 

Few  but  the  young,  whose  lives  have 
been  spent  in  perpetual  sunshine,  know 
quite  how  to  answer  this  inquiry.  With 
some  the  fountain  of  sorrow  has  been 
sealed  up,  built  and  bridged  over  by 
resignation,  acquiescence,  or  simply  by 
time.  Its  waters  have  been  hallowed 
or  sweetened,  or  dried  up  as  may  be, 
but  it  is  like  stirring  the  source  afresh 
to  put  that  question  to  one  who  has 
ever  known  deep  suffering.  D'Auban 
hesitated  a  moment  before  he  answered 
it. 

"  I  have  been  happier  here,"  he  said 
at  last,  "  than  I  had  ever  been  before. 
But  it  is  quite  a  different  kind  of 
happiness  from  that  which  I  had  once 
looked  forward  to." 

"Your  sufferings  must  have  been 
terrible  at  the  time  you  were  speaking 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


43 


of.  I  felt  it,  M.  d'Auban,  but  I  could 
not  at  the  moment  utter  a  word  of 
sympathy.  It  is  always  so  with  me." 
Her  lip  quivered,  and  he  exclaim- 
ed: 

"I  know  one  heart  which  suffering 
has  not  hardened." 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  she  answered  with  pas- 
sionate emotion,  "it  has — hardened  it 
into  stone,  and  closed  it  for  ever." 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,  have  you  spoken 
to  her  about  riding?  Have  you  suc- 
ceeded in  amusing  her  ? "  whispered 
M.  de  Chambelle  to  d'Auban.  He  had 
finished  his  letter  and  hurried  back 
with  it  from  the  house.  But  the  con- 
versation was  so  eager  J:hat  his  ap- 
proach had  not  been  noticed. 

"Tiring  her,  I  am  afraid,"  said 
d'Auban ;  "  but  if  you  will  second  my 
proposal  I  will  venture  to  plead  for 
Bayard,  who  would  carry  you,  Madame 
de  Moldau,  like  a  chevalier  sans  peur 
et  sans  reproche." 

"I  should  not  be  myself  sans  peur  et 
sans  reproche  if  I  accepted  your  kind 
offer.  Not,  I  am  afraid,  sans  peur  at 
mounting  him,  and  certainly  not  sans 
reproche  for  depriving  you  of  your 
horse.  But  I  am  grateful,  very  grate- 
ful, for  all  your  kindnesses."  Her  eyes 
were  raised  to  his  as  she  said  this,  with 
an  expression  which  thrilled  through 
his  heart. 

"When  she  had  taken  leave  of  him, 
and  was  returning  to  the  house,  follow- 
ed by  M.  de  Chambelle,  the  latter 
turned  back  again  to  say,  "You  see 
she  is  pleased." 

That  that  fair  creature  should  be 
pleased  seemed  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  he  cared  about.  "  Let  Belinda 
but  smile,  and  all  the  world  was  to  be 
gay."  D'Auban  would  have  liked  to 
see  in  her  more  affectionate  warmth  of 
manner  towards  her  father;  but  he 
supposed  she  might  be  a  little  spoilt 
by  his  overweening  affection. 

"  Above  all  things,  you  will  not  for- 


get to  inquire  about  the  black-eyed 
dame  de  compagnie." 

M.  de  Chambelle  said  this  when,  for 
the  second  time,  he  returned  to  d'Au- 
ban, after  having  escorted  his  daughter 
to  the  house.  He  followed  her  like 
her  shadow,  and  she  was  apparently  so 
used  to  this  as  not  to  notice  it. 

"  I  will  not  fail  to  do  so ;  but  Simoii- 
ette  is  a  wayward  being,  and  may  very 
likely  altogether  reject  the  proposal." 

"Gold  has,  however,  a  wonderful 
power  over  Simon,  and  if  you  offer 
high  wages,  he  may  persuade  his 
daughter  to  accept  it.  What  a  beauti- 
ful night  it  is  !  " 

This  was  said  as  they  approached 
the  river,  in  which  the  starry  sky  was 
tremblingly  reflected.  The  moon  was 
shedding  her  silvery  light  on  the 
foliage  and  the  waving  grasses  on  its 
banks. 

"What  a  fine  thing  rest  is  after  a 
day  of  labour ! "  de  Chambelle  ex- 
claimed as  he  stretched  and  smiled 
with  a  weary  but  happy  look. 

"  If  you  sleep  more  soundly,  M.  de 
Chambelle,  for  having  committed  to 
me  the  management  of  your  estate,  I 
do  from  the  increase  of  work  it  affords 
me.  But  we  must  really  try  and  make 
your  slaves  Christians.  Suppose  we 
had  a  temporary  chapel,  and  two  priests, 
if  we  could  get  them,  to  preach  a  mis- 
sion on  this  side  of  the  river ;  you  would 
not  object  to  it  ? " 

"  Not  to  any  thing  you  wish,  my  dear 
friend.  And  it  might,  perhaps,  amuse 
Madame  de  Moldau." 

D'Auban  could  not  repress  a  smile. 
It  seemed  quite  a  new  view  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

After  M.  de  Chambelle  had  left  him, 
he  remained  out  late,  attracted  by  the 
beauty  of  the  night.  Though  tired,  he 
did  not  feel  inclined  to  retire  to  rest. 
A  musing  fit  was  upon  him.  He  had 
become  conscious  that  evening  that  he 
was  in  danger  of  falling  in  love  with 


44 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


Madame  de  Moldau.  He  had  never 
yet  been  the  better  or  the  happier  for 
this  sort  of  interest  in  a  woman.  After 
the  tragical  end  of  the  only  person  he 
had  really  cared  for,  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  never  to  marry.  But  this 
resolution  was  not  likely  to  remain 
proof  against  the  attractions  of  so 
charming  a  person.  It  was  the  dread 
of  suffering  as  he  had  suffered  before ; 
the  fear  of  disappointment  which  had 
led  him  to  form  it,  as  well  as  the  appa- 
rent hopelessness  of  meeting  in  the  new 
world  in  which  his  destiny  was  cast 
with  any  woman  capable  of  inspiring 
the  sort  of  attachment  without  which, 
with  what  his  friends  called  his  roman- 
tic ideas,  he  could  not  understand  hap- 
piness in  marriage.  It  seemed  the  most 
improbable  thing  in  the  world  that  a 
refined,  well-educated,  beautiful,  and 
gentle  lady,  should  take  up  her  resi- 
dence in  a  wild  and  remote  settlement, 
and  yet  such  a  one  had  unexpectedly 
come,  almost  without  any  apparent 
reason,  as  a  visitant  from  another  sphere. 
With  her  touching  beauty,  her  secret 
sorrows,  her  strange  helplessness,  and 
her  impenetrable  reserve,  she  had,  as  it 
were,  taken  shelter  by  his  side,  and  was 
beginning  to  haunt  his  waking  hours 
and  his  nightly  dreams  with  visions  of 
a  possible  happiness,  new  and  scarcely 
welcome  to  one  who  had  attained  peace 
and  contentment  in  the  solitary  life  he 
had  so  long  led.  In  the  Christian  tem- 
ple reared  in  the  wilderness,  in  nature's 
forest  sanctuaries,  in  the  huts  of  the 
poor,  by  the  dying  bed  of  the  exile,  he 
had  felt  the  peace  he  had  sought  to  im- 
part to  others  reflected  in  his  own 
bosom.  He  had  been  contented  with 
his  fate.  He  had  assented  to  the  doom 
of  loneliness,  and  foresaw  nothing  in 
the  future  between  him  and  the  grave 
but  a  tranquil  course  of  duties  fulfilled 
and  privations  acquiesced  in.  If  he 
sometimes  yearned  for  closer  ties  than 
those  of  friendship  and  charity — if  rec- 


ollections of  domestic  life  such  as  he 
remembered  it  in  the  home  of  his  child- 
hood rose  before  him  in  solitary  even- 
ings, when  the  wind  made  wild  music 
amidst  the  pine  branches  round  his  log- 
built  house,  and  the  rolling  sound  of 
the  great  river  reminded  him  of  the 
waves  breaking  on  a  far-off  coast,  he 
would  forthwith  plan  some  deed  of 
mercy,  some  act  of  kindness,  the  thought 
of  which  generally  succeeded  in  driving 
away  these  troublesome  reminiscences. 
He  felt  almost  inclined  to  be  angry 
with  Madame  de  Moldau  for  awakening 
in  him  feelings  he  had  not  intended 
ever  to  indulge  again,  visions  of  a  kind 
of  happiness  Jie  had  tacitly  renounced. 
Who  has  not  known  some  time  or  other 
in  their  lives  those  sudden  reappear- 
ances of  long-forgotten  thoughts — the 
return  of  those  waves  which  we  fancied 
had  ebbed  and  been  for  ever  swallowed 
up  in  the  great  deep,  but  which  heave 
up  again,  and  bring  back  with  them 
relics  of  past  joys  or  dreams  of  future 
bliss ! 

Maitre  Simon's  barge  was  lying  at 
anchor  near  the  village.  It  had  just 
landed  a  party  of  emigrants  on  their 
way  back  from  the  Arkansas  to  New 
Orleans.  He  was  storing  it  with  pro- 
visions for  the  rest  of  the  voyage,  and 
was  standing  in  the  midst  of  cases  and 
barrels,  busily  engaged  in  this  labour, 
when  Colonel  d'Auban  stepped  into 
the  boat,  bade  him  good  morning,  and 
inquired  after  his  daughter.  On  his 
first  arrival  in  America  he  Jiad  made 
the  voyage  up  the  Mississippi  in  one  of 
Simon's  boats,  and  the  bargeman's  little 
girl,  then  a  child  of  twelve  years  of 
age,  was  also  on  board.  Sinionette 
inherited  from  her  mother,  an  Illinois 
Indian,  the  dark  complexion  and  pe- 
culiar-looking eyes  of  that  race ;  other- 
wise she  was  thoroughly  French  and 
like  her  father,  whose  native  land  was 
Gascony.  From  her  infancy  she  had 
been  the  plaything  of  the  passengers 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


45 


on  his  boat,  and  they  were,  indeed, 
greatly  in  need  of  amusement  during 
the  wearisome  weeks  when,  half  im- 
bedded in  the  floating  vegetation  of 
the  wide  river,  they  slowly  made  their 
way  against  its  mighty  current.    As 
she  advanced  in  years,  the  child  became 
a  sort  of  attendant  on  the  women  on 
board,  and  rendered  them  many  little 
services.     She  was  an    extraordinary 
being.     Quicksilver  seemed  to  run  in 
her  veins.     She  never  remained  two 
minutes  together  in  the  same  spot  or 
the  same  position.     She  swam  like  a 
fish  and  ran  like  a  lapwing.     Her  fa- 
vourite amusements  were  to  leap  in  and 
out  of  the  boat,  to  catch  hold  of  the 
swinging  branches  of  the  wild  vine, 
and  run  up  the  trunks  of  trees  with 
the  agility  of  a  squirrel,  or  to  sit  laugh- 
ing with  her  playfellows,  the  monkeys, 
gathering  bunches  of  grapes  and  hand- 
fuls  of  wild  cherries  for  the  passengers. 
She  had  a  wonderful  handiness,  and  a 
peculiar  talent  for  contrivances.   There 
were  very  few  things  Simonette  could 
not  do  if  she  once  set  about  them.    She 
twisted  ropes  of  the  long  grass  which 
grows  on  the  floating  islands  of  the 
Mississippi,  and  could  build  a  hut  with 
old  boards  and  pieces  of  coarse  canvas, 
or  prepare  a  dinner  with  hardly  any 
materials  at  all — as  far  as  any  one  could 
see.   She  mended  dresses  or  made  them, 
kept  her  father's  accounts,  or,  what  was 
more  extraordinary  still,  proved  a  clever 
and  patient  nurse  to  the  passengers  who 
fell  ill  with  the  dreadful  fever  of  the 
country.    Wild  as  an  elf,  and  merry  as 
a  sprite  at  other  times,  she  would  then 
sit  quietly  by  the  side  of  the  sufferers, 
bathing  their  foreheads  or  chafing  their 
hands  as  the  hot  or  cold  fit  was  upon 
them,  and  rendering  them  every  kind 
of  service. 

During  the  time  that  d'Auban  was 
on  board  her  father's  boat,  it  was  the 
little  stewardess  herself  who  fell  ill. 
One  day  her  laugh  was  no  longer  heard 


— the  plaything,  the  bird,  the  elf,  ceased 
to  dart  here  and  there  as  she  was  wont 
to  do  in  the  exuberance  of  her  youthful 
spirits.  Nothing  had  ever  before  sub- 
dued her.  She  did  not  know  what  it 
was  to  fear  any  thing,  except  perhaps 
a  blow  from  her  father,  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  his  blows  were  not  hard  ones. 
A  bit  of  European  finery  or  a  handful 
of  sweetmeats  were  enough  to  send  her 
into  an  ecstasy.  Sometimes  she  was  in 
a  passion,  but  it  did  not  last  beyond  a 
minute  or  two,  and  she  was  laughing 
again  before  there  had  been  time  to 
notice  that  she  was  out  of  temper.  But 
now  sickness  laid  its  heavy  hand  on 
the  poor  child,  her  aching  head  droop- 
ed heavily  on  her  breast.  She  did  not 
care  for  any  thing,  and  when  spoken  to 
scarcely  answered.  Simon  sat  by  his 
little  daughter,  driving  away  the  in- 
sects from  her  face,  and  trying  in  his 
rough  way  to  cheer  her.  D'Auban  also 
came  and  sat  by  her  side,  and  whisper- 
ed to  him,  "  Has  she  been  baptized  ? " 

"  No,  I  have  never  had  time  to  take 
her  to  a  priest." 

D'Auban  sighed,  and  Simon*looked 
at  him  anxiously.  Faith  was  not  quite 
extinct  in  him,  and  grief,  as  it  often 
does,  had  revived  the  dying  spark. 

"May  I  briefly  instruct,  and  then 
baptize  her  ? "  d'Auban  added. 

"  You  1  but  you  are  not  a  priest." 

"No,  but  a  layman  may  baptize  a 
personjin  danger  of  death." 

The  little  gjrl  overheard  the  words, 
and  cried  out,  "  I  will  not  die ;  don't 
let  me  die." 

"No,  my  bird,  my  little  one,  you 
shall  not  die,"  Simon  answered,  weep- 
ing and  wringing  his  hands. 

"Not  unless  the  good  God  chooses 
to  take  you  to  His  beautiful  home  in 
tieaven,"  said  d'Auban,  kneeling  by  the 
side  of  the  child.  Then  he  talked  to 
tier  in  a  low  and  soothing  voice,  and 
taught  her  the  few  great  truths  she 
could  understand.  Then,  showing  her 


46 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


a  crucifix,  lie  made  her  repeat  a  simple 
act  of  contrition,  and  baptized  her  in 
the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost.  As  the  water  flowed 
on  her  brow  she  raised  her  eyes  no  long- 
er with  a  wild  elfish  smile,  but  a  calm 
contented  look.  He  made  her  a  Chris- 
tian that  day,  and  on'  their  arrival  at 
the  mission  of  St.  Francis  he  took 
her  to  Father  Maret,  who,  whilst  her 
father's  bark  was  repairing,  placed  her 
under  Therese's  care.  She  was  christ- 
ened in  the  church,  and  made  her  first 
communion  before  his  next  voyage. 
Therese  took  great  pains  with  her 
charge,  but  she  did  not  understand  her 
character.  The  Indian's  grave  and 
earnest  soul  did  not  harmonize  with 
the  volatile,  impulsive,  and  wayward 
nature  of  the  Frenchman's  child.  Si- 
monette  heard  Mass  on  Sunday,  and 
said  short  prayers  night  and  morning, 
but  her  piety  was  of  the  active  order. 
She  studied  her  catechism  up  in  some 
tree,  seated  on  a  branch,  or  else  swing- 
ing in  one  of  the  nets  in  which  Indian 
women  rock  their  children.  She  could 
hardly  sit  still  during  a  sermon,  and 
from  sheer  restlessness  envied  the  birds 
as  they  flew  past  the  windows.  But  if 
Father  Maret  had  a  message  to  send 
across  the  prairie,  or  if  food  and  medi- 
cine was  to  be  carried  to  the  sick,  she 
was  his  ready  messenger — his  carrier- 
pigeon,  as  he  called  her.  Through 
tangled  thickets  and  marshy  lands  she 
made  her  way,  fording  with  her  naked 
feet  the  tributary  streams  of  the  great 
river,  or  swimming  across  them  if 
necessary ;  jumping  over  fallen  trunks, 
and  singing  as  she  went,  the  bird-like 
creature  made  friends  and  played  with 
every  animal  she  met,  and  fed  on  ber- 
ries and  wild  honey. 

As  she  grew  older,  the  life  she  led, 
her  voyages  to  and  from  New  Orleans, 
and  above  all,  the  acquaintances  she 
made  in  that  town,  were  very  undesira- 
ble for  a  young  girl.  She  learnt  much 


of  the  evil  of  the  world,  was  often 
thrown  into  bad  company,  listened 
to  conversation  and  read  books  well 
adapted  to  taint  the  mind  and  corrupt 
the  heart.  But  as  yet  she  had  passed 
through  these  scenes  and  been  exposed 
to  those  trials  without  much  apparent 
bad  result.  When  she  returned  to  St. 
Frangois  du  Sault,  her  manner  was  for 
a  while  bold  and  somewhat  wild ;  she 
said  foolish  and  reckless  things.  But 
an  interview  with  Father  Maret,  a  few 
days  spent  amongst  good  people,  or  a 
word  of  friendly  advice  from  her  god- 
father, would  set  her  right  again,  and 
cause  her  to  resume  her  good  habits,  to 
soften  her  voice,  and  sober  her  exuber- 
ant spirits.  She  had  found  a  safe- 
guard against  contaminating  influences 
in  a  feeling  the  nature  of  which  she 
could  scarcely  have  defined,  composed 
as  it  was  of  gratitude,  admiration,  and 
a  love  which  had  in  it  no  admixture  of 
hope  or  expectation  of  return.  Some- 
times these  extraneous  helps  are  per- 
mitted to  do  their  work  and  to  assist 
human  weakness  fo  keep  its  footing 
amidst  life's  shoals  and  quicksands — 
themselves  at  best  but  sands  !  But  if 
a  grain  of  sand  has  ever  stood  between 
us  and  sin  it  is  not  to  be  despised :  nor 
will  He  despise  it  who  caused  the  gourd 
to  grow  over  the  prophet's  head,  and 
to  wither  away  when  its  mission  was 
fulfilled. 

"  "Where  is  Simonette  ? "  inquired 
d'Auban,  after  the  first  words  of  civil- 
ity had  paused  between  him  and  the 
bargeman. 

"  She  was  here  a  minute  ago,"  an- 
swered Simon  with  a  grin,  "  but  that  is 
rather  a  reason  she  should  not  be  here 
now.  The  girl  is  never  in  the  same 
place  for  two  minutes  together." 

"What!  have  not  advancing  years 
at  all  tamed  her?"  said  d'Auban, 
laughing.  "Is  she  quite  the  same 
light-hearted  creature  who  enlivened 
for  me  the  horrors  of  my  first  acquaint- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


ance  with  your  barges,  Maitre  Simon  ? 
Well,  I  am  glad  of  it.  In  the  midst  of 
mournful-looking  Indians  and  careworn 
settlers,  it  is  pleasant  to  have  a  laugh- 
ing fairy  like  your  daughter  to  remind 
us  that  there  still  exists  such  a  thing  as 
mirth.  But  I  wish  she  was  here.  I 
have  something  to  propose  to  her. 
However,  I  may  as  well,  perhaps, 
broach  the  subject  to  you." 

"  Is  it  something  profitable  ? "  asked 
Maitre  Simon,  thrusting  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

"  It  is  a  situation  with  a  lady.  You 
will  admit  that  such  an  offer  is  not 
often  to  be  met  with  in  this  country." 

"  What  sort  of  a  situation  ? " 

"  Partly  as  attendant,  partly  as  com- 
panion." 

"  And  is  the  lady  a  real  one  ? " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  is." 

"  And  a  person  of  good  character  ? 
You  see,  Colonel,  I  am  an  old  sinner  my- 
self, but  I  should  not  like  my  little  girl 
to  live  with  some  of  the  ladies  whom 
we  know  come  out  to  the  colony." 

D'Auban  felt  he  had  no  proof  to 
give  of  Madame  de  Moldau's  respecta- 
bility beyond  his  own  entire  belief 
in  it. 

He  answered  in  a  somewhat  sneering 
manner,  "  I  will  engage  to  say  that,  as 
far  as  morality  goes,  she  is  greatly 
superior  to  the  persons  your  daughter 
associates  with  on  board  your  boats." 

"  Ah  1  but  there  I  watch  over  her." 

Whatever  d'Auban  might  think  of 
the  amount  of  Simon's  parental  vigi- 
lance, he  felt  that  his  own  manner  of 
speaking  had  be^n  wrong. 

"  All  I  can  tell  you  is,"  he  said  in  a 
different  tone,  "  that  from  what  I  have 
myself  seen  of  Madame  de  Moldau,  I 
am  persuaded  that  she  is  a  person  of 
unexceptionable  character.  Her  father 
has  more  fortune  than  the  generality 
of  settlers,  and  has  bought  M.  de  Har- 
lay's  pavilion.  I  did  not  know  them 
before  they  came  here-  but  my  im- 


pressions are  so  favourable  that  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  advise  you  to  accept  the 
offer  I  speak  of,  if  Simonette  herself  is 
inclined  to  do  so." 

"Here  comes  the  monkey,"  cried 
Simon,  pointing  to  the  thicket  from 
whence  his  daughter  was  emerging. 
"  May  I  speak  to  her  first  about  it? " 
d'Auban  asked. 

"  Certainly ;  only  when  you  come  to 
talk  of  wages  you  better  take  me  into 
council." 

D'Auban  went  to  meet  the  girl.  In 
her  half-French,  half-Indian  costume, 
with  her  black  hair  twisted  in  a  pic- 
turesque manner  round  her  head,  and 
her  eyes  darting  quick  glances,  more 
like  those  of  a  restless  bird  than  of  a 
woman,  Simonette,  as  Maitre  Simon's 
daughter  had  always  been  called,  was 
rather  pretty.  There  was  life,  anima- 
tion, and  a  kind  of  brilliancy  about 
her,  though  there  was  no  real  beauty 
in  her  features,  and  no  repose  in  her 
countenance;  she  seemed  always  on 
the  point  of  starting  off,  and  had  a 
way  of  looldng  out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye  as  if  she  caught  at  what  was  said 
to  her  rather  than  listened  to  it. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Simonette  ?  It  is 
a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you." 

"Sir,  I  thought  you  had  forgotten 
me." 

"No,  indeed,  I  have  not;  and  the 
proof  is  in  my  coming  here  to-day  to 
offer  you  a  situation." 

"  Sir,  I  don't  want  a  situation." 

"  Hear  what  it  is,  Simonette,  before 
you  decide.  Madame  de  Moldau,  the 
lady  at  St.  Agathe,  would  like  to  en- 
gage you  as  an  attendant ;  but,  in  fact, 
what  she  really  wants  is  a  compan- 
ion." 

"  Sir,  she  had  better  not  take  me." 

"Why  so,  Simonette?" 

"  Because,  sir,  I  should  not  suit  her." 

"  But  I  think  you  would,  Simonette, 
and  I  really  wish  you  would  think 
about  it." 


48 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


"  "Well,  wait  a  moment,  and  I  will." 
She  darted  off,  and  in  a  moment  was 
out  of  sight. 

Maitre  Simon  came  up  to  d'Auban 
and  asked  what  had  become  of  her. 

"She  says  she  must  take  time  to 
consider,  and  has  rushed  into  the 
thickets." 

"  I  always  maintain  she  is  more  like 
a  monkey  than  a  woman,"  Simon  ex- 
claimed, in  a  tone  of  vexation.  "I 
dare  say  she  is  in  the  hollow  of  a  tree 
or  at  the  top  of  a  branch.  I  wish  she 
was  married  and  off  my  hands.  What 
wages  would  the  lady  give  ? " 

"  Well,  forty  francs  a  month,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Fifty  would  be  more  to  the  pur- 
pose. You  see,  sir,  if  it  is  not  often 
that  ladies  are  to  be  found  in  these 
parts,  it  is  just  as  seldom  that  ladies' 
maids  are  to  be  met  with." 

"  Well,  I  admit  there  is  something  in 
that.  Let  us  then  say  fifty." 

"  Ah !  I  know  you  are  a  reasonable 
man,  Colonel  d'Auban.  I  wish  the 
girl  would  come  back." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  did  return, 
holding  a  small  ape  in  her  arms,  and 
playing  a  thousand  tricks  with  it. 

"Well,  Simonette,  your  father  is 
satisfied  about  the  wages.  It  remains 
for  you  to  say  if  you  will  accept  the 
situation." 

"  No,  sir,  I  will  not,"  answered  Si- 
monette, looking  hard  into  the  mon- 
key's face. 

"  But  it  is  a  very  good  offer,"  urged 
her  father.  "Fifty  francs  a  month. 
What  are  you  thinking  of,  child  ? " 

"  It  would  also  be  an  act  of  charity 
towards  the  lady,"  d'Auban  put  in. 
"  She  is  ill  and  sorrowful." 

"  And  I  am  sure  it  would  be  a  chari- 
ty to  ourselves,"  Simon  said,  in  a  whin- 
ing voice.  "Passengers  are  not  so 
frequent  as  they  used  to  be,  and  it  is 
like  turning  our  backs  on  Providence 
to  refuse  an  honest  employment." 


"It  is  the  lady  we  brought  some 
months  ago,  father,  from  New  Orleans," 
said  Simonette.  "  A  pale,  tall  woman, 
with  blue  eyes." 

"Of  course,  I  remember  her  quite 
well.  The  old  gentleman  paid  my  bill 
without  saying  a  word,  which  very  few 
of  my  passengers  have  the  right  feeling 
to  do.  I  am  sure  they  must  be  excel- 
lent people." 

There  was  a  slight  sneer  on  his 
daughter's  lip. 

"  What  does  this  lady  expect  of  me, 
sir  ?  "  she  said,  turning  to  d'Auban. 

"  To  help  her  to  govern  her  house- 
hold, and  render  all  the  little  services 
you  can.  She  is  much  inclined  to 
like  you,  and  I  think  you  would  be 
very  happy  at  St.  Agathe." 

Simonette  laughed  a  short  bitter 
laugh,  and,  hugging  the  monkey,  whis- 
pered in  its  ear,  "  Oh,  my  good  little 
ape !  Are  you  not  glad  to  see  how 
foolish  men  can  be  ?"  Then,  suddenly 
becoming  grave,  she  looked  steadily  at 
d'Auban  and  said,  "Then,  sir,  you 
really  wish  me  to  accept  the  offer  ? " 

"  I  really  do.  I  think  it  will  be  a  mu- 
tual advantage  to  this  lady  and  to  you." 

"  Then,  God  forgive  me,  I  will." 

"  God  forgive  you  ! "  exclaimed 
d'Auban,  puzzled,  and  beginning  to 
feel  irritated  with  the  girl's  manner. 
"  What  can  you  mean  ? " 

"  She  is  in  one  of  her  moods ;  it  is 
the  Indian  blood  in  her,"  cried  Maitre 
Simon.  "  But  you  know,  Colonel,  she 
soon  gets  out  of  these  queer  tempers  ; 
she  is  a  good  girl  on  the  whole.  May 
we  consider  the  affaif  as  settled  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  d'Auban,  speak- 
ing rather  coldly.  "  If  you  will  come 
to-morrow  at  nine  o'clock  to  St.  Agathe, 
Simonette,  Madame  de  Moldau  will 
see  you." 

"  Very  well,  sir.  Have  you  any  other 
commands  for  me  ? " 

"  No,  only  to  catch  and  tame  for  me 
just  such  another  ape  as  that." 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


49 


•  "  They  are  not  easily  tamed.  They 
require  a  great  deal  of  affection." 

"  Oh !  that  I  cannot  promise  to  give 
to  a  monkey." 

"  The  love  of  a  little  animal  is  not 
to  be  always  despised,"  muttered  Si- 
monette,  "  nor  its  hatred ; "  and  then 
she  went  about  the  barge  pulling 
things  about  and  exciting  the  ape  to 
grin  and  to  chatter.  When  d'Auban 
and  her  father  had  gone  away,  she  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  benches  and  began 
to  cry.  "  Oh,  bad  spirit ! "  she  ex- 
claimed— "fierce  spirit  of  my  mother's 
race,  go  out  of  my  heart.  Let  the  other 
spirit  return — the  dancing,  laughing, 
singing  spirit.  Oh,  that  the  Christian 
spirit  that  took  charge  of  me  when  I 
was  baptized  would  drive  them  both 
away — I  am  so  tired  of  their  fighting  ! " 

Just    then  Thermae  came  near  the 


boat  and  said,  "  Simonette,  all  the  girls 
of  the  mission  assemble  to-day  in  the 
church  to  renew  their  baptismal  vows, 
and  the  chief  of  prayer  will  speak  to 
them.  The  altar  is  lighted  up,  and 
the  children  are  bringing  flowers.  Will 
you  come  ? " 

Simonette  was  soon  with  her  com- 
panions in  the  forest  chapel,  and  after 
the  service  was  over  she  played  with 
them  on  the  green  sward  under  the 
tulip  trees.  The  maiden  of  seventeen 
summers  was  as  wild  with  spirits,  as 
turbulent  in  her  glee,  as  the  youngest 
of  the  party.  She  stopped  once  in  the 
midst  of  a  dance  to  whisper  to  Therese 
— "  The  Indian  spirit  is  gone  out  of  my 
heart  for  the  present,  but  as  to  the 
French  one,  if  I  drive  it  out  at  the  door 
it  comes  back  by  the  window.  What 
is  to  be  done  ? " 


CHAPTEK    Y. 

Strive;  yet  I  do  not  promise 

The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 
Will  not  fade  when  you  think  to  grasp  it, 

And  melt  in  your  hand  away. 
Pray,  though  the  gift  you  ask  for 

May  never  comfort  your  fears, 
May  never  repay  your  pleading, 

Yet  pray,  and  with  hopeful  tears ; 
And  far  through  the  misty  future, 

With  a  crown  of  starry  light, 
An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 

Is  winging  her  silent  flight       Adelaide  Proctor. 

Rumour  is  a  pipe  blown  by  surmises,  jealousies,  conjectures. 


ON  the  following  morning  Colonel 
d'Auban  met  Simonette  in  the  avenue 
of  the  pavilion.  M.  de  Chambelle  was 
coming  out  of  the  house  with  a  very 
disconsolate  countenance.  He  bright- 
nidi  up  a  little  when  he  saw  d'Auban. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  is  to  become 
of  us,"  he  said.  "  Madame  de  Moldau 
is  quite  ill,  and  the  Indian  servant  does 
4 


not  know  how  to  do  any  thing.  Mon 
Dieul  what  a  country  this  is!  Why 
would  she  come  here  ? " 

"I  have  brought  Maitre  Simon's 
daughter,  M.  de  Chambelle.  She  wishes 
to  offer  her  services  to  Madame  de 
Moldau." 

"  Ah !  Mademoiselle  Simonette,  you 
are  a  messenger  from  heaven  1 " 


50 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


The  celestial  visitant  was  looking  at 
poor  M.  de  Chambelle  with  an  expres- 
sion which  had  in  it  a  little  too  much 
malice  to  be  quite  angelic.  "  Let  Mad- 
emoiselle," he  continued,  "name  her 
own  terms."  It  was  fortunate  that 
Simon  was  not  there  to  hear  this,  and 
d'Auban  mentioned  the  sum  agreed 
upon  between  them.  M.  de  Chambelle 
gladly  assented,  and  said  he  would  go 
and  inform  his  daughter  of  Mademoi- 
selle's arrival.  "I  beg  you  will  be  seat- 
ed," he  said,  bowing  to  the  young 
quadroon  with  as  much  ceremony  as 
if  she  had  been  a  princess  in  disguise. 

With  equal  formality  he  announced 
to  his  daughter  that  he  had  found  her 
an  attendant  in  the  little  stewardess  on 
board  the  Frenchman's  barge. 

"Do  you  mean  his  daughter?"  she 
asked—"  the  girl  with  eyes  as  black  as 
the  berries  she  gathered  for  us  ? " 

"  Yes,  Madame,  the  young  person 
who  sometimes  used  to  make  you 
laugh." 

"  You  know,  my  dear  father,  we  had 
resolved  not  to  have  European  servants. 
I  feel  as  if  it  would  be  running  a  risk." 

"But  this  girl  is  a  quadroon.  She 
has  never  been  in  Europe.  She  is  really 


"On  the  contrary,  my  good  father, 
she  is  a  very  civilized  little  being — far 
too  much  so  for  us.  Indeed,  I  had 
rather  not  take  her  into  the  house." 

"  But  I  cannot  bear  any  longer,  and 
that  is  the  real  truth,  to  see  you  without 
any  of  the  comforts  you  ought  to  have. 
.  .  Oh  yes,  I  know  the  walls  are  thin. 
I  will  not  speak  too  loud.  But  did  I 
not  find  you  yesterday  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  trying  to  make  the  fire  burn,  and 
that  horrible  squaw  standing  stupidly 
by?" 

"  It  is  not  the  poor  creature's  fault ; 
she  is  willing  to  learn." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  you,  you,  my 
own—" 

The  old  man  burst  into  tears,  and 


leant  against  the  foot  of  the  bed  over- 
powered with  grief.  "If  you  knew 
what  I  suffer  when  I  see  you  thus ! " 

"  Poor  old  father !  do  not  grieve. 
There  have  been  times  when  I  have 
suffered  much  more  than  I  do  now. 
And  let  this  thought  be  a  comfort  to 
you.  What  should  I  have  done  but  for 
your  care?  I  sometimes,  however,  ask 
myself  if  it  was  worth  while  to  go 
through  so  much  in  order  to  lead  such 
a  life  as  this.  If  it  would  not  have 
been  better — "  She  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands  and  shuddered.  "  No,  no,  I 
am  not  ungrateful.  But  do  not  take 
it  unkindly,  dear  good  father,  if  I  talk 
to  you  so  little.  I  often  feel  like  a 
wounded  animal  who  cares  for  nothing 
but  to  lie  down  exhausted.  I  remem- 
ber— ah!  I  had  resolved  never  to  use 
that  word  again — but  I  do  remember 
seeing  a  stricken  deer  lying  on  the 
grass,  in  a  green  valley  near  the  tower 
where  the  hounds  used  so  often  to  meet. 
It  was  panting  and  bleeding.  I  could 
not  help  weeping,  even  as  you  are  now 
weeping.  Dear  old  father !  try  not  to 
give  way  to  grief.  It  only  makes  me 
sad.  Settle  as  you  think  best  about 
this  French  or  Indian  girl.  Does  Col- 
onel d'Auban  recommend  us  to  take 
her?" 

"  Most  strongly.  He  is  sure  you  will 
find  her  useful.  He  feels  as  I  do ;  he 
cannot  bear  to  see  you  without  proper 
attendance." 

"  You  have  not  told  him  ? " 

"  Heaven  forbid !  but  anybody  would 
be  sorry  to  see  you  so  ill  and  with  no 
one  to  nurse  you." 

"  Well,  let  her  come.    I  have  not 

nergy  enough  to  resist  yours  and  his 

kind  wishes.     The  future  must  take  its 

chance.     But  before  you  go,  lock  up 

that  book,  if  you  please." 

This  was  the  volume  of  German 
Psalms  which  had  been  snatched  out 
of  d'Auban's  hand  on  the  day  of  his 
first  visit. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


51 


There  was  an  undefinable  expression 
in  Siinonette's  face  when  she  came  into 
Madame  de  Moldau's  room — an  uneasy 
suspicious  look.  She  answered  briefly 
the  questions  put  to  her,  and  seemed 
relieved  when  her  active  exertions  were 
called  into  play.  She  had  not  been 
many  hours  in  the  house  before  it  as- 
sumed a  new  aspect.  Some  people 
have  a  natural  talent  for  making  others 
comfortable,  and  relieving  the  many 
little  sources  of  disquietude  which  affect 
invalids. 

Madame  de  Moldau's  couch  was 
soon  furnished  with  cushions  made 
of  the  dried  Willow  grass,  which  the 
Indians  collect  for  a  similar  purpose. 
The  want  of  blinds  or  shutters  was 
supplied  by  boughs,  ingeniously  inter- 
woven and  fixed  against  the  windows. 
The  sunbeams  could  not  pierce  through 
the  soft  green  of  these  verdant  curtains. 
The  kitchen  was  put  on  a  new  footing, 
and  towards  evening  a  French  consomme 
was  brought  to  Madame  de  Moldau, 
such  as  she  had  not  tasted  since  her 
arrival  in  America. 

"  I  could  not  have  believed  a  basin 
of  broth  could  ever  have  been  so  ac- 
ceptable," she  said  with  a  kind  smile 
when  her  new  attendant  came  to  fetch 
the  cup  away. 

Simonette  made  no  answer.  Her 
manner  to  her  mistress  was  by  no  means 
agreeable ;  she  laboured  indefatigably 
for  her,  but  the  gaiety  which  had  been 
her  principal  attraction  only  showed 
itself  now  by  fits  and  starts.  She  soon 
became  the  ruling  power  at  St.  Agathe ; 
took  all  trouble  off  M.  de  Chambelle's 
hands,  and  managed  him  as  a  child. 
The  Indian  servant,  the  negro  boy,  and 
even  the  slaves  on  the  plantation,  owned 
her  sway.  After  she  had  been  at  the 
pavilion  about  three  weeks,  D'Aubau 
met  her  and  said,  "  Your  employers  are 
delighted  with  you,  Simonette." 

"  They  would  do  better  to  send  me 
away,  sir,"  she  testily  replied. 


"Why  so?"  he  asked,  feeling  hurt 
and  disappointed. 

"  Sir,  I  do  not  like  people  who  have 
secrets." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

Before  she  could  answer  M.  de  Cham- 
belle  joined  them,  and  she  went  away. 
The  recklessness  of  her  childhood,  and 
the  exuberance  of  her  animal  spirits, 
had  now  taken  the  form  of  incessant 
activity.  She  never  seemed  happy  ex- 
cept when  hard  at  work. 

D'Auban's  visits  to  St.  Agathe  were 
becoming  more  and  more  frequent. 
There  were  few  evenings  he  did  not 
end  his  rounds  by  spending  a  few  mo- 
ments under  the  verandah  or  in  the 
parlour  of  the  pavilion.  Most  of  his 
books,  and  all  his  flowers,  gradually 
made  their  way  there.  Antoine,  though 
little  given  to  reading  himself,  bitterly 
complained  that  there  was  scarcely  a 
volume  left  on  his  master's  shelves. 
He  began  to  feel  at  home  in  that  little 
room,  to  which  Simonette  had  con- 
trived to  impart  an  Old  World  look  of 
comfort.  Her  glimpses  of  the  colo- 
nists' houses  at  New  Orleans  had  given 
her  an  insight  into  Europe'an  habits. 
His  chair  was  placed  for  him  between 
Madame  de  Moldau  and  her  father, 
and,  though  she  was  habitually  silent, 
the  hours  glided  by  with  wonderful 
rapidity  during  the  now  lengthening 
evenings,  as  he  recounted  the  little 
incidents  of  the  day,  or  described  the 
scenery  he  had  rode  through,  or  dwelt 
on  the  new  plans  he  was  forming.  She 
always  listened  with  interest  to  every 
thing  he  said,  but  did  not  seem  to  care 
much  about  the  people  amongst  whom 
their  lot  was  cast.  The  mention  of  any 
kind  of  suffering  always  made  her 
shudder,  but  that  negroes,  Indians,  or 
poor  people  of  any  sort  were  of  the 
same  nature  as  herself,  she  did  not 
seem  exactly  to  realize.  Practically, 
she  did  not  care  much  more  about 
them  than  for  the  birds  and  beasts, 


52 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


living  and  dying  around  her  in  the 
sunshine  and  the  shade.  But  d'Auban, 
by  telling  her  facts  which  came  home 
to  her  woman's  heart,  gradually  awoke 
in  her  a  new  sense  of  sympathy.  It 
was  dangerous  ground,  however,  to 
venture  on,  for  if  the  woes  of  others 
did  not  always  appear  to  touch  her 
deeply,  yet  sometimes  the  mention  of 
them  provoked  a  burst  of  feeling  which 
shook  her  delicate  frame  almost  to 
pieces.  M.  de  Chambelle  on  these  oc- 
casions was  wont  to  look  at  him  re- 
proachfully, and  at  her  with  a  dis- 
tressed expression  till  she  had  recovered 
her  composure.  D'Auban  also  got  into 
the  habit  of  watching  every  turn  of  her 
countenance,  every  tone  of  'her  voice. 
She  attracted  and  she  puzzled  him. 
Not  only  did  her  father,  and  she  her- 
self, continue  to  preserve  a  nearly  total 
silence  as  to  their  past  history,  but 
there  were  peculiarities  in  her  char- 
acter he  did  not  understand.  It  was 
impossible  in  many  ways  to  be  more 
amiable,  to  show  a  sweeter  disposition, 
or  bear  with  more  courage  the  priva- 
tions and  discomforts  she  was  often 
subjected  to.  But  he  could  not  help 
observing  that,  notwithstanding  all  her 
sweetness  and  amiability,  she  took  it 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  her  wishes 
should  be  considered  paramount  to  any 
other  consideration.  She  acknowl- 
edged Simonette's  services  with  kind- 
ness, but  made  ample,  and  not  always 
very  considerate,  use  of  them.  He  was 
often  sent  for  himself  at  inconvenient 
times,  and  for  somewhat  trifling  rea- 
sons, and  she  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand that  the  requirements  of  business 
were  imperious,  and  could  not  be  post- 
poned to  suit  her  convenience.  But  he 
was  so  glad  to  see  her  shake  off  the 
listless  despondency  which  had  weighed 
upon  her  during  the  first  period  of  her 
residence  at  St.  Agathe,  so  delighted 
to  hear  her  express  any  wish  and  take 
pleasure  in  any  thing ;  the  least  word 


of  thanks  from  her  had  such  a  charm 
for  him,  and  ministering  to  her  happi- 
ness was  becoming  so  absorbing  an 
interest,  that,  even  whilst  wondering 
at  M.  de  Chambelle's  paternal  infatua- 
tion, he  was  fast  treading  in  his  foot- 
steps, and  in  danger  of  being  himself 
subjected  to  the  same  gentle  tyranny. 
Their  conversations  grew  longer  and 
more  intimate.  He  felt  he  was  gaining 
influence  over  her.  Often  when  he  was 
expressing  his  opinions  on  various  sub- 
jects, she  would  say : 

"I  had  never  thought  of  that  be- 
fore ; "  or,  "it  had  never  struck  me  in 
that  light."  And  he  would  notice  the 
result  of  some  observation  he  had  made 
in  slight  changes  in  her  conduct. 

There  was  one  subject,  however,  she 
always  carefully  avoided,  and  that  was 
religion.  He  was  in  total  ignorance  as 
to  her  feelings  and  opinions  on  that 
point.  Except  the  volume  of  German 
Psalms  which  had  been  taken  out  of 
his  hand,  he  had  seen  nothing  at  St. 
Agathe  which  gave  him  any  idea  as  to 
the  form  of  religion  she  professed,  or 
whether  she  held  any  religious  belief  at 
all.  At  last  he  resolved  to  break 
silence  on  this  subject  by  putting  a 
direct  question  to  her. 

This  happened  one  evening  when  he 
had  been  speaking  of  the  slaves,  and 
of  the  measures  he  was  taking  for  their 
instruction  in  Christianity.  He  ab- 
ruptly asked,  "What  is  your  religion, 
Madame  de  Moldau  ? " 

The  silence  which  ensued  was  pain- 
ful to  both.  His  heart  was  beating  very 
fast,  and  an  expression  of  annoyance 
almost  amounting  to  displeasure  was  vis- 
ible in  her  face.  At  last,  as  he  seemed 
to  persist  in  expecting  an  answer,  she 
said,  "I  think  I  should  be  justified  in 
refusing  to  answer  that  question.  There 
are  subjects  on  which,  in  such  a  coun- 
try as  this  at  least,  thought  may  be 
free.  I  would  rather  not  be  questioned 
as  to  my  religious  belief." 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


53 


"Forgive  me,  Madame  de  Moldau, 
but  is  this  a  friendly  answer  ?  Do  you 
think  it  is  curiosity  leads  me  to  ask  ? 
Do  you  think,  as  day  after  day  we  have 
sat  talking  of  every  thing  except  relig- 
ion, that  I  have  not  longed  to  know 
what  you  thought — what  you  be- 
lieved ?  .  .  .  No,  I  will  not  let  you  be 
silent.  I  will  not  leave  you  till  you 
have  answered  my  question." 

There  was  in  d'Auban's  character  the 
strength  of  will  which  gives  some  per- 
sons a  natural  ascendency  over  others. 
Other  qualities  may  contribute  to  it, 
but  determination  is  the  natural  ele- 
ment of  all  such  power.  It  has  also 
been  said  that  in  any  friendship  or 
intimacy  between  two  persons,  there 
comes  a  moment  which  establishes  the 
ascendency  of  one  of  the  parties  over 
the  other;  and  if  this  be  true,  that 
moment  was  arrived  for  those  we  are 
now  speaking  of.  Madame  de  Moldau 
had  resolved  not  to  open  her  lips  on 
the  subject  which  he  was  equally  de- 
termined she  should  speak  upon.  She 
wept  and  made  signs  that  he  should 
leave  her ;  but  he  who  had  been  hither- 
to subservient  to  her  slightest  wish, 
who  had  treated  her  with  an  almost  ex- 
aggerated deference,  now  stood  firm 
to  his  point.  He  sat  resolutely  on  with 
his  lips  compressed,  his  dark  gray  eyes 
fixed  upon  her,  and  his  whole  soul  bent 
on  obtaining  the  answer  which  he 
hoped  would  break  down  the  wall  of 
silent  misery  rising  between  her  soul 
and  the  consolations  she  so  much 
needed. 

"  Madame  de  Moldau,  what  religion 
do  you  profess  f  "  he  again  asked,  lay- 
ing a  stress  on  the  last  word. 

"  I  profess  none,"  she  answered  in  a 
voice  stifled  with  sobs. 

"Well,  then,  thank  God  that  you 
have  said  so — that  you  have  had  the 
courage  to  avow  the  truth  If  you 
would  only  open  your  heart — " 

"  Open  my   heart !  "   she    repeated, 


with  a  melancholy  emphasis.  "You 
do  not  know  what  you  are  saying ;  I 
am  not  like  other  people." 

"  But  will  you  not  tell  me,  Madame, 
in  what  religion  you  were  educated  ? " 

A  bitter  expression  passed  over  her 
face  as  she  answered : 

"  In  no  particular  religion." 

"  Is  this  possible  ?  " 

"  I  was  always  told  it  did  not  signify 
whaj  people  believed,  and,  God  knows, 
I  think  so  now." 

"  Madame,  is  that  your  creed  ?  " 

"I  detest  all  creeds." 

"  And  have  you  never  practised  any 
religion  ? " 

"  I  have  gone  through  certain  forms." 

"  Those  of  the  Catholic  religion  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  was  silent. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Madame,  an- 
swer that  one  question." 

"No,  I  have  never  been  a  Catholic." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad!" 

"Why  so?" 

"You  will  not  understand  it  now, 
Madame,  but  some  day  you  will.  And 
now,  before  I  go,  do  tell  me  that  I  have 
not  oifended  you." 

"  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  be  offended, 
but  in  truth  I  cannot  say  that  I  am. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  I  cannot  afford  to 
quarrel  with  the  only  friend  I  have  in 
the  world."  She  held  out  her  hand, 
and  for  the  first  time  he  pressed  it  to 
his  lips. 

"  And  I  suppose  I  am  to  read  these 
books  ? "  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile, 
pointing  to  the  l£st  volumes  he  had 
sent.  "  I  doubt  not  they  are  carefully 
chosen." 

"  There  was  not  much  to  choose  from 
in  my  library,  and  no  art  in  the  selec- 
tion. I  have  sent  you  the  friends 
which  have  strengthened  me  in  tempta- 
tion, consoled  me  in  sorrow,  and  guid- 
ed me  through  life." 

As  he  was  leaving  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau's  room,  d'Auban  perceived  through 
the*  green  leaves  two  eyes  fixed  upon 


54 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


them.  He  wondered  who  it  was  watch 
ing  them,  and  darted  out  to  see.  Si- 
monette  was  sitting  at  work  in  the 
verandah,  humming  the  old  French 
song: 

Au  clair  de  la  lune, 
Mon  ami  Pierrot, 
Prete-moi  ta  plume, 
Pour  ecrire  un  mot. 

"  Who  was  looking  into  tha 
he  said,  going  up  to  her  in  an  angry 
manner. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  without 
answering.  He  felt  convinced  it  must 
have  been  her  eyes  he  had  seen  through 
the  green  boughs,  but  thought  it  better 
not  to  say  so. 

"  Do  you  like  your  situation,  Simon- 
ette?"  he  asked. 
"No,  sir,  I  do  not." 
"  Are  you  not  well  treated  ? " 
"  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of." 
"  What  makes  you  dislike  it,  then  ? " 
"  Nothing  that  anybody  can  help." 
"  Come,  Simonette,  I  am  an  old  friend 
of  yours.    You  ought  to  speak  to  me 
with  more  confidence." 

"  A  friend  to  me !  yes,  you  have  in- 
deed been  the  best  of  friends  to  a 
friendless  girl;  but,  sir,  it  was  not  a 
friendly  act  to  bring  me  here." 

"  I  wish  you  would  speak  plainly." 
"  That  is  just  what  I  cannot  do." 
"You  are  not  used  to  service,  and 
find  it  irksome,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  No,  I  have  always  served  some  one 
or  other  since  I  can  recollect." 

"Your  mistress  seems  particularly 
kind  to  you,  and  I  know  both  she  and 
her  father  are  greatly  pleased  with 
your  services." 

"And  it  gives  you  pleasure  that  I 
should  stay  here  ? " 

This  was  said  in  a  gentler  tone  of 
voice. 

"  Well,  I  should  be  glad  that  you  re- 
mained, and  I  cannot  see  any  reason 
against  it." 

"Then,  sir,  I  will  try  to  do  so/ she 


answered,    in    a    humble,    submissive 
manner.     "  Good-bye,  M.  d'Auban." 

When  he  was  gone,  the  young  girl 
sank  down  again  on  the  seat,  and  for  a 
moment  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  When  she  took  up  her  work 
again,  and  as  her  eyes  wandered  over 
the  lawn,  they  caught  sight  of  some- 
thing yellow  and  glittering  lying  on 
the  grass,  at  a  short  distance  from  the 
house.  She  went  to  pick  it  up,  and 
found  a  magnificent  gold  locket,  which 
contained  a  miniature  set  in  diamonds. 
She  held  it  open  on  the  palm  of  her 
hand,  and  gazed  alternately  at  the  pic- 
ture and  on  the  words  inscribed  at  the 
back.  An  expression  of  surprise,  a 
sort  of  suppressed  exclamation,  rose 
from  her  compressed  lips;  then  put- 
ting it  in  her  pocket,  she  walked  back 
to  the  house — not  in  her  usual  darting 
bird-like  fashion,  but  slowly,  like  a 
person  whose  mind  is  wholly  absorbed. 
Madame  de  Moldau  had  been  asking 
for  her,  and  when  she  came  in  com- 
plained a  little  of  her  absence;  but, 
observing  that  she  looked  ill,  kindly 
inquired  if  she  was  ailing. 

"You  work  too  hard,  perhaps.  I 
really  do  not  think  you  ever  take  a 
moment's  rest.  I  reproach  myself  for 
not  having  noticed  it  before." 

"  Indeed,  you  need  not  do  so,  lady, 
for  it  is  not  for  your  sake  that  I  came 
here,  and  if  I  do  spend  my  strength  in 
working  for  you,  neither  is  it  for  your 
sake  that  I  do  so." 

Madame  de  Moldau  coloured  a  little, 
for  there  was  something  offensive  in 
the  tone  with  which  this  was  said. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  asked  with  a 
slight  amount  of  irony,  "  that  it  is  all 
for  the  love  of  God,  as  pious  people 
say?" 

"No,  Madame;  Therese  works  in 
;hat  way,  and  I  wish  with  all  my  heart 
[  did  so  too.  She  has  no  master  but 
the  good  God." 

"And  for  whom  do  you  work,  then  ? 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


55 


Who  do  you  call  your  master  ?  Is  it 
the  priest,  or  your  own  father  ? " 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  them,  Mad- 
ame." 

"  Then  of  whom  are  you  speaking  ? " 

"May  not  I  have  my  secrets,  Mad- 
ame, as  you  have  yours  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  coloured  deeply, 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  as  if  to 
still  its  throbbings. 

"  Call  M.  de  Chambelle,"  she  faintly 
said. 

"  He  is  gone  out,  Madame,  with  M. 
d'Auban.  I  saw  them  crossing  the 
stream  a  moment  ago." 

Madame  de  Moldau  sighed  deeply, 
and  joined  her  hands  together  in  an 
attitude  of  forced  endurance.  Simon- 
ette  was  Ipoking  at  her  with  a  search- 
ing glance.  One  of  her  hands  was  in 
her  pocket  tightly  grasping  the  locket 
she  had  found.  At  last  she  said : 

"  Lady,  have  you  lost  any  thing  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  hurriedly  felt 
for  the  black  ribbon  round  her  neck, 
and  not  finding  it  there,  turned  pale. 

"  What  have  you  found  ? "  she  asked. 

"A  very  beautiful  trinket,"  Simon- 
ette  answered,  and  pulled  the  locket 
out  of  her  pocket.  "  Of  course  it  be- 
longs to  you,  Madame?  Those  are 
larger  diamonds  than  any  I  have  yet 
seen,  but  I  learnt  at  New  Orleans  the 
value  of  those  kind  of  things." 

Madame  de  Moldau  held  out  her 
hand  for  the  locket.  "Thank  you," 
she  quickly  said.  "  It  is  my  property." 
Then  she  took  off  a  small  ring  and 
offered  it  to  her  attendant.  "This  is 
not  a  reward  for  your  honesty,  for  I  am 
sure  you  do  not  wish  for  one,  but 
rather  a  token  of  the  pleasure  it  gives 
me  to  recover  this  locket." 

Simonette  hesitated.  On  the  one 
hand  the  thought  crossed  her  mind, 
that  the  offer  of  the  ring  was  a  bribe. 
She  thought  she  had  grounds  for  think- 
ing this  poasible.  The  conflict  which 
had  been  going  on  in  her  mind  since 


her  coming  to  St.  Agathe  seemed  to 
have  reached  a  crisis.  "I  am  much 
obliged  to  you,  Madame,"  she  said  at 
last,  "  but  I  would  rather  not  accept 
this  ring." 

A  long  silence  ensued.  Both  took 
up  some  needlework.  The  hands  of 
the  mistress  trembled,  whilst  her  at- 
tendant's fingers  moved  with  nervous 
rapidity.  After  a  long  silence  the  for- 
mer said,  "  You  have  been  a  kind  and 
a  useful  attendant,  Simonette,  and  I  do 
not  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  you  during  my  illness ;  but  I 
am  now  quite  recovered.  You  do  not 
seem  to  be  happy  here,  and  I  ought  to 
learn  to  wait  on  myself.  Is  it  not  bet- 
ter that  we  should  part  ? " 

Again  good  and  bad  thoughts  of 
that  gentle  lady  passed  like  lightning 
through  the  girl's  mind.  "  She  wishes 
to  get  rid  of  me.  She  knows  I  suspect 
her.  Perhaps  I  am  an  obstacle  to  some 
of  her  wicked  plans."  The  indignant 
inward  voice  was  answered  by  another. 
"  It  is  cruel  to  suspect  her.  Cruel  to 
leave  her.  She  will  be  ill  again  if  I  go. 
At  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  believe  I 
love  her." 

She  raised  her  eyes,  which  she  had 
hitherto  kept  fixed  on  her  work.  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  was  weeping;  she 
looked  the  very  picture  of  youthful 
and  torching  sorrow — so  innocent,  so 
gentle,  so  helpless.  Their  eyes  met, 
and  Simonette's  were  also  full  of  tears, 
"Would  you  be  sorry  to  leave  me, 
Simonette?" 

"M.  d'Auban  will  be  very  angry  with 
me  if  I  do." 

"  Not  if  I  chose  to  part  with 
you?" 

This  was  said  with  gentleness  but 
firmness. 

Simonette  felt  her  conduct  was  un- 
generous, and  she  exclaimed,  "I  have 
been  wrong ;  do  let  me  stay,  Madame. 
I  cannot  bear  that  M.  d'Auban  should 
think  me  ungrateful." 


56 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


"What  has  he  done  to  inspire  you 
with  so  much  gratitude  ?  " 

"What  has  he  not  done  for  me?" 
Simonette  replied,  with  deep  emotion. 
"  I  was  an  outcast  and  he  reclaimed 
me — a  savage  and  he  instructed  me — I 
was  dying,  and  he  baptized  me  ! " 

* '  Indeed  !     When  ?— where  ? " 

"  Five  years  ago  in  my  father's  boat. 
I  had  the  fever.  I  shall  never  Jforget 
the  words  he  said  to  me  then,  or  what 
I  felt  when  he  poured  the  water  on  my 
head." 

"  And  he  has  been  kind  to  you  ever 
since?" 

"Oh  yes,  very  kind;  he  is  always 
kind." 

"  He  has,  indeed,  been  so  to  us." 

"May  I  stay?" 

"I  don't  know,  Simonette;  M.  de 
Chambelle  will  decide." 

"  Then  I  am  sure  I  shall  stay." 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  which,  in 
the  midst  of  her  emotion,  which  had 
not  yet  subsided,  made  Madame  de 
Moldau  laugh.  That  laugh  settled 
the  question.  But  although  Simon- 
ette's  heart  had  been  touched,  her 
mind  was  not  satisfied.  The  sight  of 
the  locket  and  of  the  picture  it  con- 
tained stood  between  her  and  her 
peace.  She  took  advice  of  Father 
Maret.  He,  probably,  was  of  opinion 
that  she  should  stay  at  St.  Agathe,  for 
she  said  nothing  more  about  leaving; 
but  though  she  grew  every  day  fonder 
of  her  mistress,  it  was  clear  that  some 
secret  anxiety  was  preying  on  her  mind. 

After  this  day  nothing  occurred  for 
some  time  to  disturb  the  even  course 
of  the  settlers'  lives.  D'Auban  now 
spent  all  his  spare  time  at  St.  Agathe, 
and  Madame  de  Moldau  gradually  be- 
gan to  take  an .  interest  in  his  pur- 
suits and  occupations.  The  united 
concessions  were  flourishing  under  his 
management,  and  the  condition  of  the 
labourers  rapidly  improving.  At  last 
she  was  induced  to  visit  some  of  the 


huts  on  the  plantation,  and  as  soon  as 
the  effort  was  made,  she  found  pleasure 
in  doing  good  to  her  poor  neighbours 
and  in  studying  how  to  help  them — 
first,  by  furnishing  them  with  little 
comforts  such  as  they  could  appreciate, 
and  then  by  nursing  them  in  sickness. 
But  when  it  came  to  this  she  felt  her 
own  helplessness  in  cases  where  persons 
were  troubled  in  mind,  or  leading  bad 
lives,  or  plunged  in  ignorance.  Her 
own  ideas  were  too  vague,  her  own  be- 
lief too  uncertain,  to  enable  her  to  give 
advice  or  consolation  to  others.  One 
day  she  found  Therese  in  a  cabin  where 
a  Frenchman  was  lying  at  the  point  of 
death.  She  had  spoken  to  her  two  or 
three  times  before,  and  d'Auban  had 
been  anxious  to  make  them  better  ac- 
quainted, but  they  were  both  very  re- 
served, and  no  advance  had  been  made, 
towards  intimacy.  Wishing  not  to 
disturb  her  she  remained  near  the  door, 
and  did  not  make  her  presence  known. 
Therese  was  speaking  earnestly  to  the 
sick  man  and  preparing  him  for  the 
last  sacrament,  which  Father  Maret 
was  soon  to  bring  him.  What  she 
said,  simple  as  it  was,  indeed,  because 
of  its  simplicity,  made  a  great  impres- 
sion on  Madame  de  Moldau.  It  gave 
her  different  ideas  about  religion  than 
she  had  hitherto  had.  She  remained 
in  that  poor  hut  watching,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  the  approach  of  death, 
and  with  all  sorts  of  new  thoughts 
crowding  into  her  mind.  She  placed 
on  the  floor  the  provisions  she  had 
brought  with  her,  and  slipped  away 
unperceived ;  but  the  next  day  Therese 
was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  lady 
of  St.  Agathe,  and  still  more  so  by  her 
saying,  "  Therese,  you  must  instruct  me 
in  your  religion." 

A  thrill  of  joy  ran  through  the  In- 
dian's heart,  but  she  answered,  "  Not 
so,  daughter  of  the  white  man.  Let 
me  take  you  to  the  black  robe." 

"Not  yet,  Therese,  not  yet.     You 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


must  teach  me  yourself,  and  then  per- 
haps I  will  go  to  the  black  robe." 

"  But  the  eagle  of  your  tribe — he  can 
tell  you  more  than  a  poor  Indian  about 
the  Great  Spirit  and  the  Christian's 
prayer." 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  Colonel  d'Au- 
ban,  Th6r£se  ? " 

"  Yes,  of  the  great  and  good  chief  of 
the  white  men.  They  call  him  amongst 
us  the  great  hunter  and  the  strong  arm, 
but  it  is  his  goodness  makes  him  a  son 
of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  the  hope  of  all 
who  suffer." 

"  It  is  his  goodness  which  began  to 
make  me  think  of  learning  your  reli- 
gion, Th6rese  ;  but  it  is  you  who  must 
teach  me." 

She  would  take  no  denial.  Day  after 
day  the  European  lady  sat  by  the  side 
of  the  daughter  of  an  Algonquin  chief 
in  her  poor  hut,  and  learnt  from  her 
lips  the  lessons  taught  from  the  time 
of  the  Apostles  by  simple  and  learned 
men,  by  poor  monks  and  great  divines, 
in  universities  and  village  schools, 
in  the  cathedrals  of  Old  Europe  and 
the'  forest  chapels  of  the  New  World. 
She  drank  in  the  spirit  of  child-like 
piety  which  breathed  in  all  that  Therese 
did  and  said,  and  never  felt  so  peaceful 
as  in  her  cottage.  There  no  questions 
were  raised  which  could  agitate  her, 
no  allusions  were  made  to  the  past,  no 
anxious  looks  were  bent  upon  her. 
D'Auban's  affection,  as  well  as  Simon- 
ette's  curiosity,  were  ever  on  the  watch. 
They  were  all  more  or  less  watching 
one  another.  She  was  not  ungrateful 
for  his  solicitude,  but  it  sometimes 
seemed  to  weary  her.  There  was  a 
struggle  going  on  between  them,  and 
also,  perhaps,  in  her  own  heart.  He 
was  always  trying  to  break  through 
the  barrier  which,  with  all  her  feeble 
womanly  strength,  she  was  resolutely 
keeping  closed. 

Th6rese,  on  the  contrary,  cared  noth- 
ing for  her  past  history,  had  no  wish 


to  know  who  she  was  and  whence  she 
came.  Her  only  object  was  to  make 
her  love  the  Christian  prayer  and  serve 
the  Great  Spirit  with  as  much  zeal  as 
herself.  This  simple  and  ardent  faith, 
joined  to  the  daily  example  of  her  holy 
life,  had  more  effect  on  her  disciple 
than  able  arguments  or  deep  reasonings. 
The  books  she  had  lately  read  at  d'Au- 
ban's  request  had  doubtless  removed 
some  prejudices  from  her  mind  and 
prepared  the  way  for  the  reception  of 
dogmatic  truth ;  but  it  was  not  Bos- 
suet's  writings,  nor  St.  Francois  de 
Sale's,  the  most  persuasive  of  Christian 
writers,  that  finally  overcame  her  scep- 
ticism and  converted  her  to  Catholicism. 
When  she  heard  the  young  Indian  girl 
speaking  of  the  honour  and  joy  of  dying 
for  one's  faith,  and  envying  the  terrible 
sufferings  which  some  of  her  country- 
men had  not  long  ago  endured  for  the 
sake  of  their  religion,  it  served  to  con- 
vince her  far  more  than  abstract  rea- 
sonings that  a  creed  is  not  a  mere  sym- 
bol or  religion  a  set  of  particular  cere- 
monies. She  saw  in  Therese  how  a 
young  person  can  sacrifice  for  the  love 
of  God  every  thing  that  is  commonly 
called  happiness  and  pleasure;  and 
that,  amidst  the  untutored  savages  of 
the  New  World,  as  well  as  formerly 
amongst  the  proud  and  luxurious  Ro- 
man nobles,  Christians  lay  down  their 
lives  gladly  for  the  sake  of  their  faith ; 
and  this  more  than  any  thing  else  show- 
ed her  the  difference  between  an  opinion 
and  a  creed,  a  sentiment  and  a  religion. 
Though  she  did  not  converse  with 
freedom  on  these  subjects  with  d'Auban, 
she  liked  to  hear  from  Therese  of  his 
love  of  the  poor,  of  his  tenderness  tow- 
ards the  sick  and  aged.  She  knew 
that  priests  and  sisters  of  charity  cared 
for  the  poor,  but  that  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  life,  full  of  ability  and  talent, 
should  cherish  the  outcasts  of  the  human 
race — savages  and  slaves — was  first  a 
wonder  and  then  a  new  light  to  her. 


58 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


Therese's  imagination,  fraught  with 
imagery  and  tinged  with  enthusiasm, 
drew  pictures  of  his  goodness  which 
had  in  them  truth  as  well  as  beauty. 
She  described  how  the  white  man,  who 
could  hunt  and  swim  and  slay  the 
leopard  and  the  wolf,  and  conquer  in 
battle  the  greatest  warriors  of  the  four 
nations,  loved  little  children  and  carried 
them  in  his  arms.  She  said  he  was 
like  the  west  wind  wralking  lightly 
over  the  prairies,  whispering  to  the 
lilies. 

Madame  de  Moldau  listened,  and  her 
blue  eyes,  which  seemed  often  fixed  in 
mournful  contemplation  on  invisible 
scenes  of  sorrow,  would  suddenly  light 
up  as  if  a  brighter  vision  rose'  before 
them.  She  was  at  last  persuaded  one 
evening  to  attend  a  service  in  the  church 
of  the  Mission.  It  was  one  of  those  at 
which  the  negroes  from  the  neighbour- 
ing plantations  usually  flocked.  Hid- 
den in  a  recess,  she  heard  the  black 
robe  preach  to  the  poor  slaves.  He 
spoke  of  the  weary  and  heavy  laden, 
of  a  bondage  sadder  than  theirs ;  and 
it  seemed  as  if  he  was  addressing  her. 
Perhaps  he  was,  for  often  God's  servants 
unconsciously  utter  words  which  are  a 
direct  message  from  Him  to  some  par- 
ticular soul.  The  next  day  she  came 
to  see  him,  and  after  that  they  often 
met  in  the  huts  of  the  poor,  and  he 
sometimes  came  to  St.  Agathe.  He, 
too,  watched  her  with  interest.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  D'Auban's  af- 
fection for  the  beautiful  stranger  was 
no  secret  to  him,  and  for  his  sake  he 
tried  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
her,  to  find  out  something  of  her  past 
life,  of  her  former  associates,  of  her 
former  place  of  residence.  It  was  of 
no  use.  He  was  not  more  successful 
than  d'Auban  himself,  or  than  Simon- 
ette.  He  did  not  express  any  suspi- 
cions, and  yet  he  did  not  seem  perfectly 
satisfied.  He  still  advised  him  to  be 
cautious. 


"  She  looks  so  good !  she  is  so  good ! " 
d'Auban  would  say. 

"  Well,  so  she  does,"  he  would  answer 
with  a  smile,  "and  I  hope  she  is  so; 
but  I  wish  she  would  tell  us  where  she 
was  born,  and  where  and  when  M.  de 
Moldau  died.  I  have  a  fancy  for  facts 
and  dates,  baptismal  and  marriage  cer- 
tificates." 

Some  months  elapsed,  and  brought 
with  them  little  outward  change  in  the 
lives  of  the  little  band  of  emigrants. 
It  was  a  monotonous  existence,  as  far 
as  the  surface  of  things  went ;  but  it 
had  its  under-current  of  cares  and  in- 
terests, of  hopes  and  fears. 

"  Men  must  work  and  women  must 
weep  " — such  is  the  burthen  of  a  pop- 
ular song  which  has  often  been  sung 
in  luxurious  drawing-rooms  by  men 
who  do  not  work  and  women  who 
seldom  weep.  But  it  was  true  of  those 
dwellers  in  the  wilderness  whom  chance 
had  brought  together,  and  who  were 
beginning  to  care  more  for  one  another 
than  those  should  do  who  are  not  look- 
ing forward  to  a  time  when,  before  God 
and  men,  they  may  be  all  in  all  to  each 
other.  She  often  wept ;  sometimes 
with  passionate  grief,  or,  if  others  show- 
ed her  affection,  with  a  kind  of  child- 
like sorrow  which  shows  a  latent  dis- 
position to  be  comforted. 

He  worked  very  hard  for  her  and  for 
others  also,  for  his  was  not  a  narrow 
selfish  love.  It  widened  his  heart  to 
all  human  sympathies.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  little  self-interest  in  it  too.  To 
every  person  whose  passage  to  the  grave 
he  smoothed,  and  who  whispered  with 
their  last  breath,  "  I  will  pray  for  you 
in  heaven,"  he  said,  "Pray  for  her." 
To  those  who  blest  him  for  his  kind- 
ness or  his  charity,  he  again  said,  "  Ask 
God  to  bless  her."  And  the  blessing 
he  desired  for  that  beloved  one  was 
the  gift  of  Faith.  He  thought  he  saw 
its  dawning,  and  watched  its  progress 
with  anxious  hope.  The  winter  came, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


59 


and  stillness  was  on  the  prairie— the 
stillness  which  is  like  that  of  a  mist 
lying  on  a  waveless  sea.  The  snow  was 
on  the  ground,  the  last  brown  and  yel- 
low leaves  falling  from  the  seared 
branches,  and  the  mighty  rushing  of 
the  neighbouring  river,  the  only  sound 
heard  in  the  depths  of  the  windless 
forest. 

It  was  a  picturesque  group  which 
sat  round  the  blazing  pine  logs  in  the 
hall  of  the  pavilion.  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau  was  the  centre  of  it.  What  a 
clever  French  girl  said  of  a  princess 
of  our  day  might  have  applied  to  the 
lady  of  St.  Agathe— "  Vest  la  realite 
de  Videal."  Simonette's  dark  arch 
countenance,  d'Auban's  handsome  sun- 
burnt face,  and  M.  de  Chambelle's  gray 
hairs,  contrasted  with  her  fair  and 
radiant  beauty.  As  a  background  to 
the  principal  figures  of  this  picture  sat 
Indian  women  nursing  their  children — 
men  mending  nets  or  feathering  ar- 
rows. Negroes  and  whites  and  red 
men  mixed  together,  crouching  by  the 
fire  and  enjoying  the  warmth.  They 
were  all  devoted  to  Madame  de  Moldau 
since  she  had  begun  to  take  notice  of 
them,  and  she  liked  them  to  come  in 
and  to  surround  her.  As  her  spirits 
improved,  she  lost  her  love  of  solitude, 
and  the  homage  of  her  dependants  was 
evidently  agreeable  to  her.  She  now 
seldom  saw  d'Auban  in  the  morning, 
but  was  evidently  not  well  pleased  if 
he  omitted  to  come  in  the  evening. 
She  avoided  .long  or  intimate  conversa- 
tions with  him,  but  always  listened 
with  the  greatest  attention  to  what  he 
said  to  others  or  in  general  conversa- 
tion. None  could  see  them  together 
without  perceiving  that  he  was  becom- 
ing devotedly  attached  to  her — no  one, 
at  least,  who  felt  any  interest  in  watch- 
ing the  progress  of  this  attachment. 
M.  de  Chambelle  evidently  rejoiced 
that  he  had  found  in  him  a  fellow- 
worshipper,  and  the  dark-eyed  girl 


sitting  at  her  feet  knew  perfectly  well 
that  every  word  Madame  de  Moldau 
uttered  thrilled  through  Colonel  d'Au- 
ban's heart.  She  knew  also  that  her 
mistress  watched  for  the  sound  of  his 
footfall  on  the  grass  just  as  she  did 
herself,  and  that  when  he  was  in  the 
room  there  was  a  brightness  in  her  face 
which  passed  away  when  he  left  it. 

It  was  a  singular  bond  of  union  be- 
tween persons  so  different  from  each 
other,  and  in  such  different  positions ; 
that  they  should  be  interested  in  the 
same  person,  though  in  a  very  dissimi- 
lar way.  This  sympathy  was  felt, 
though  not  acknowledged.  If  d'Auban 
wished  something  done,  both  were 
eager  to  carry  out  his  plans.  If  he 
stayed  away  longer  than  usual  from 
St.  Agathe,  both  were  depressed,  and 
each  knew  what  the  other  was  think- 
ing of.  The  grateful  enthusiastic  girl's 
affection  was  a  kind  of  worship.  The 
reserved  and  sensitive  woman's  regard 
— the  highly-educated  lady's  feelings — 
were  of  a  different  nature.  This  was 
often  evinced  in  the  little  daily  occur- 
rences of  life.  Once,  when  he  was  ill, 
Madame  de  Moldau  would  not  believe 
that  he  was  too  ill  to  come  to  St.  Aga- 
the. Simonette  turned  pale  at  the 
thought  of  his  doing  so,  for  Father 
Maret  had  said  it  would  be  imprudent. 
Yet  on  another  occasion,  when  a  man 
was  drowning,  she  was  glad  he  plunged 
into  the  river  to  save  him  at  the  risk 
of  his  life,  whilst  Madame  de  Moldau 
entreated  and  commanded  him  to  de- 
sist from  the  attempt.  To  see  him 
honoured,  admired,  and  beloved,  was 
the  passion  of  the  young  quadroon— to 
be  cherished  and  cared  for  and  petted 
by  him,  Madame  de  Moldau's  principal 
object. 

There  was  as  much  variety  in  the 
subjects  talked  of  in  those  evenings  at 
St.  Agathe  as  in  the  appearance  of  the 
persons  gathered  together  in  that  re- 
mote spot  from  the  most  opposite  parts 


60 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


of  the  world.  Tales  were  told  and 
songs  were  sung  which  had  called  forth 
tears  and  smiles  under  other  skies  and 
amidst  other  scenes.  Stories  of  the 
black  forest  and  the  Hartz  moun- 
tains ;  legends  of  Brittany  and  of  the 
bocage;  traditions  of  the  salt  lakes 
and  the  fenlands — of  Africa  tribes  and 
slavery  in  Brazil — were  told  in  prose 
and  verse,  wild  and  rude  at  times,  but 
now  and  then  full  of  the  poetry  which 
belongs  to  the  infancy  of  nations. 
Father  Maret  was  one  day  relating  that 
a  Frenchman  had  escaped  death  by 
promising  the  savages,  if  they  would 
spare  his  life,  that  he  would  prove  to 
them  that  he  held  them  all  in  his  heart 
— a  pledge  he  redeemed  by  discovering 
a  looking  glass  which  he  wore  on  his 
breast.  There  was  a  general  laugh, 
and  from  Madame  de  Moldau's  lips  it 
came  sweetly  ringing  like  the  chirping 
of  a  bird  in  a  hedgerow.  D'Auban 
had  never  heard  her  laugh;  M.  de 
Chambelle  not  for  a  very  long  time. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  there  was  a  silent 
congratulation  in  that  glance.  The 
laugh  which  had  gladdened  their 
hearts  was  like  the  first  note  of  the 
cuckoo  on  a  spring-day,  telling  of  green 
shoots  and  budding  blossoms  at  hand. 

On  the  same  evening,  when  Father 
Maret  was  going  away,  Madame  de 
Moldau  followed  him  to  the  door,  and 
said  a  few  words  to  him.  When  she 
returned  there  was  a  very  pensive  ex- 
pression in  her  countenance.  Simon- 
ette  was  distributing  some  maple 
sugar  to  the  labourers  about  to  depart. 
They  were  as  fond  of  it  as  children. 
M.  de  Chambelle  was  dozing.  There 
was  still  some  heat  in  the  red  embers, 
though  the  fire  had  nearly  burnt  out. 
Madame  de  Moldau  stood  by  the  chim- 
ney gazing  on  the  fantastic  shapes  of 
the  gleaming  ashes.  D'Auban  said  to 
her: 

"I  am  so  glad,  madame,  that  you 
like  Father  Maret  and  see  him  often." 


She  sighed  deeply.  "How  could 
one  know  and  not  like  him,  and  not 
admire  him  ?  But  .  .  .  ." 

"But  what?" 

"  He  is  very  severe." 

"  In  what  way  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  coloured,  and 
did  not  answer. 

"  Oh,  that  silence !  that  perpetual 
silence.  Will  you  never  have  the  least 
confidence  in  me.  Do  not  you  see,  da 
you  not  feel  how  devotedly  .  .  .  .  ? " 
he  was  going  to  say,  "  I  love  you,"  but 
he  was  checked  by  a  look,  in  which 
there  was  perhaps  a  little  haughtiness. 
At  least  he  fancied  he  saw  something 
like  pride  in  the  sudden  drawing  up  of 
her  swan-like  neck,  and  the  troubled  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes ;  but  if  so,  it  lasted 
but  an  instant.  In  an  earnest  feeling 
manner  she  said, "  If  we  are  to  be  friends, 
dear  M.  d'Auban,  and  we  certainly  must 
be  friends,  and  continue  so,  abstain,  I 
beseech  you,  from  appeals  and  reproach- 
es, which  give  me  more  pain  than  you 
can  imagine.  I  know  how  trying  my 
silence  must  often  be  to  you ;  how  often 
I  must  appear  cold  and  ungrateful .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,  indeed  it  is  not  that.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  your  kindness  which 
emboldened  me  to  speak  as  I  did  just 
now." 

"  One  thing  I  will  tell  you  which 
you  will  be  glad  to  hear.  I  am  think- 
ing of  becoming  a  Catholic." 

"  Thank  God  for  it,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Madame,  I  have  prayed  and  hoped 
for  this  ever  since  I  have  known  you." 

"Have  you  indeed  prayed  for  it? 
You  do  not  know  what  it  may  in- 
volve ; "  her  voice  faltered  a  little. 

"  Sacrifices,  perhaps  ?  "  he  gently 
said,  and  paused,  hoping  she  would 
say  more.  But  just  then  M.  de  Cham- 
belle  woke  up  and  made  a  thousand 
apologies  for  his  drowsiness.  She 
seemed  glad  of  the  interruption,  and 
d'Auban  went  away. 

As  he  walked  home,  he  turned  over 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


61 


in  his  mind  every  thing  that  had  passed 
during  the  last  eighteen  months  since 
Madame  de  Moldau's  arrival.  That 
lapse  of  time  had  not  thrown  any  light 
on  the  points  which  from  the  first  had 
puzzled  him.  A  mystery  is  never  a 
pleasant  thing — seldom  a  blessed  one. 
The  trackless  wilds  of  the  New  World 
had  already  been  polluted  by  many  a 
foot  which  had  set  its  impress  on  the 
worn-out  surface  of  the  Old  World  in 
characters  of  blood.  Many  had  brought 
with  them  ill-gotten  gains  wherewith 
to  traffic  amidst  new  scenes  and  new 
dupes.  How  many,  also,  to  hide  a 
name  once  held  up  to  public  disgrace, 
and  begin  a  new  life,  not  of  penitence 
and  atonement,  but  of  artifice  and  sin. 
He  had  never  for  a  single  moment 
supposed  it  possible  that  Madame  de 
Moldau  belonged  to  any  of  these  classes 
of  emigrants.  She  was  one  of  those 
beings,  so  he  fancied  at  least,  with 
whom  it  is  impossible  to  couple  a 
thought  of  suspicion.  He  would 
sooner  have  doubted  the  evidence  of 
his  senses  than  have  deemed  her  guilty 
and  deceitful.  But  it  did  not  seem 
equally  out  of  the  question  that  she 
might  be  the  involuntary  accomplice, 
or  rather  the  victim  of  the  sins  of 
others.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
precautions  taken  by  her  and  her  father 
to  conceal  even  the  outside  of  the  let- 
ters they  received.  M.  de  Chambelle 
always  watched  for  the  arrival  of  the 
boat,  and  fetched  away  himself  the 
parcels  and  letters  directed  to  them. 
He  had  also  noticed  that  she  always 
looked  nervous  when  he  brought  a 
newspaper  with  him.  The  arrival  of 
one  was  rather  an  event  in  the  settle- 
ment, and  he  sometimes  offered  to  read 
the  contents  aloud.  On  one  occasion, 
when  he  was  doing  so,  he  happened  to 
look  up  and  perceived  that  Madame 
de  Moldau  seemed  very  much  moved, 


and  caught  sight  of  Simonette's  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  with  a  scrutinizing  ex- 
pression. He  made  some  slight  com- 
ments on  the  various  topics  alluded  to 
in  the  number  of  the  Mercure  de  France, 
which  he  had  just  read;  but  his  ob- 
servations elicited  no  answers.  Men- 
tion had  been  made  in  it  of  the  war  in 
Germany ;  of  Madame  de  Maintenon's 
death  ;  of  the  illness  of  Louis  XV. ;  of 
a  fresh  conspiracy  against  Peter  the 
Great,  and  his  son's  flight  from  Russia  ; 
of  the  coronation  of  George  I. ;  a  great 
conflagration  at  Brussels,  and  a  murder 
at  Prague.  He  took  the  paper  home 
with  him.  Sirnonette  called  early  the 
next  morning  and  begged  the  loan  of 
it  for  her  mistress. 

"  I  was  sure,"  she  said,  "  that  mad- 
ame  would  ask  to  see  it  again ;  there 
is  something  in  it  which  I  know  would 
particularly  interest  her." 

D'Auban  felt  greatly  tempted  to  ask 
what  it  was  she  alluded  to.  Simonette 
had  often  of  late  showed  a  desire  to 
talk  to  him  of  her  mistress,  especially 
in  reference  to  the  mystery  in  which 
her  past  life  was  shrouded ;  but  he  had 
always  checked  her.  He  had  been  the 
means  of  placing  this  girl  with  Madame 
de  Moldau,  and  he  would  not  on  any 
account  have  availed  himself  of  any 
information  she  might  have  acquired 
in  order  to  discover  her  mistress's  se- 
crets. Seeing  he  made  no  reply  to  her 
observation,  Simonette  took  the  paper 
and  went  away. 

All  these  circumstances  made  Mm 
anxious  and  thoughtful;  one  thing, 
however,  gave  him  comfort.  She  who 
had  been  apparently  drifting  on  life's 
sea  like  a  rudderless  bark,  was  now 
about  to  enter  the  haven.  A  prudent 
and  tender  hand  would  soon  probe  the 
wound  so  long  and  sedulously  conceal- 
ed. Hope  and  blessings  were  in  that 
thought. 


62 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


I  thought  to  pass  away  before, 

And  yet  alive  I  am   .   .   . 

A  still  small  voice  spake  unto  me 

Thou  art  so  full  of  misery : 

Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ? 

A  second  voice  was  at  my  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver  clear, 

A  munner  "  be  of  better  cheer." 

So  heavenly  toned  that  in  that  hour 

From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power, 

Broke  like  the  rainbow  from  tho  shower. 

Tennyson. 

But  a  more  celestial  brightness,  a  more  ethereal  beauty 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form  when,  after  confession, 
Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  benediction  upon  her. 
"When  she  had  passed  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of  exquisite  music. 

Longfellow. 


A.  FEW  days  later  d'Auban  met  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  coming  out  of  the 
church  of  the  mission.  He  saw  her  be- 
fore she  could  see  him.  She  seemed  to 
be  gazing  with  admiration  on  the 
scene  before  her.  It  was  an  afternoon 
of  wintry  but  exquisite  beauty.  No 
transparent  vapour,  no  mist  laden  with 
dew  obscured  the  grand  outlines  or 
dimmed  the  delicate  features  of  nature. 
The  distant  hills  and  the  smallest  blade 
of  grass  stood  out  in  beautiful  distinct- 
ness in  the  brilliancy  of  the  sunshine. 
But  as  he  drew  near,  and  she  still  re- 
mained motionless  and  absorbed  in 
contemplation,  he  felt  that  it  was  not 
the  beauty  of  earth  and  sky  that  was 
filling  her  soul  with  ecstasy — not  the 
brilliancy  of  the  cloudless  heavens 
which  riveted  her  upward  gaze.  He 
guessed,  and  rightly  guessed,  that  she 
had  that  day  laid  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross  the  burthen  so  long  borne  in 
silence;  that  the  poisoned  arrow  had 
been  drawn  from  her  breast.  He  was 
deeply  moved ;  for  he  loved  the  woman 
who  midway  in  his  life  had  come  to 


sadden  by  her  silent  sorrow,  and  yet  to 
cheer  by  her  gentle  companionship,  the 
loneliness  of  his  exile.  He  longed  to 
hear  her  say  that  she  was  one  with 
him  in  faith,  that  henceforward  they 
would  worship  at  the  same  altar,  that 
one  great  barrier  between  them  was 
for  ever  removed.  He  spoke  to  her  in 
a  loud  •  voice ;  she  turned  round  and 
held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  his 
question,  "  it  is  as  you  suppose.  I  am 
at  Catholic." 

For  the  first  time  since  his  mother 
had  been  laid  in  her  quiet  grave  in  the 
little  churchyard  of  St.  Anne,  d'Auray, 
tears  rose  in  his  eyes. 

"  Blessed  be  this  hour  and  this  day," 
he  murmured,  with  uncontrollable  emo- 
tion. "It  has  made  us  one  in  faith. 
May  not  our  hearts  and  our  lives  be 
also  for  ever  united !  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau, will  you  be  my  wife  ? " 

The  moment  he  had  uttered  the 
words  he  would  have  wished  to  recall 
them ;  for  she  looked  beyond  measure 
grieved  and  distressed.  It  had  been 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


63 


an  irresistible  impulse.  He  did  not 
feel  sure  that  she  was  not  angry. 
There  was  such  a  burning  blush  on 
her  cheek,  and  such  a  singular  expres- 
sion in  her  countenance ;  but  the  blush 
passed  away,  and  a  look  of  great  sweet- 
ness took  the  place  of  that  strange  ex- 
pression. 

"M.  d'Auban,"  she  said,  earnestly 
and  steadily,  "  it  is  better  at  once,  this 
very  day,  under  the  shadow  of  the  cross 
beneath  which  we  stand,  to  tell  you  the 
truth." 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  exclaimed;  "the 
truth — the  whole  truth." 

"The  truth  which  what  you  said 
just  now  compels  me  to  speak.  For 
every  possible  reason  we  can  never  be 
more  than  friends ;  and  if  you  would 
not  drive  me  away  from  the  home, 
where  after  much  suffering  I  have 
found  peace,  and  if  you  would  still 
help  me  to  be  good  and  happy,  you 
will  never  allude  to  this  subject  again." 

"  Is  this  an  irrevocable  decision  ? " 

"  It  is  not  a  decision  I  have  had  to 
make ;  it  is,  I  repeat  it,  a  truth  I  am 
telling  you." 

"  You  are  not  free,  then  ? " 

"  No,  I  am  not  free."  She  paused 
and  hesitated  a  little.  "If  I  was  so 
there  would  still  be  reasons  why  I 
could  not  be  your  wife." 

He  remained  silent.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  severe.  She  saw  it  was.  Her 
voice  trembled  as  she  said — 

"  You  have  been  all  kindness  to  me, 
and  the  truest  friend  a  woman  ever 
had.  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever 
repay.  But  do  not  ask  me  to  explain ; 
if  you  can,  banish  the  wish  to  know 
more  about  me  than  that  I  was  once 
miserable  and  am  now  contented; — 
that  I  had  neither  faith  nor  hope  when 
I  came  here,  and  that  now,  thanks  to 
you,  I  have  both." 

"  That  is  enough  for  me ! "  he  eagerly 
cried — "quite,  quite  enough.  I  will 
seek  to  banish  all  other  thoughts.  The 


hope  I  had  dared  to  indulge  was  not 
altogether  a  selfish  one." 

"I  know  it  well.  You  wanted  to 
help,  to  comfort  me.  Now  your  friend 
knows  all."  She  said  this,  pointing  to 
Father  Maret's  house.  "  He  has  given 
me  the  consolation,  the  advice  I  so 
much  needed.  He  is  teaching  me 
where  to  find  strength ;  he  will  direct 
my  future  course.  But  this  I  wish  to 
say  before  I  leave  you  to-day.  Whether 
we  are  to  continue  to  dwell  in  the  same 
place,  or  should  we  part  not  to  meet 
again,  there  is  a  thought  that  will 
never  leave  me  as  long  as  I  live.  I  may 
forget  many  things — many  there  are  I 
would  fain  forget  but  what  you  have 
done  for  me.  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  al- 
most unable  to  speak  for  tears,  and 
pointed  to  the  part  of  the  church 
where  the  altar  stood,  then  almost  im- 
mediately added,  "  I  never  can  forget 
that  you  brought  me  here;  that  you 
brqught  me  to  Sim  !  " 

It  was  not  all  at  once  that  d'Auban 
could  collect  his  thoughts  sufficiently 
to  realize  fully  what  had  passed  that 
day,  and  how  different  had  been  the 
result  from  what  he  had  expected. 
The  event  he  had  so  ardently  desired 
had  indeed  come  to  pass,  and  ardent 
also  was  the  gratitude  he  felt  for  this 
great  blessing ;  but  the  earthly  hopes 
connected  with  it  had  suddenly  van- 
ished. What  he  had  felt  to  be  the 
great  barrier  between  him  and  Madame 
de  Moldau  was  removed,  and  yet  was 
he  to  give  up  all  idea  of  marrying  her. 
"  Not  free  1 "  He  repeated  those  words, 
over  and  over  again.  "  Not  free,  and 
even  if  free,  never  to  be  his  wife."  He 
pondered  over  the  meaning  of  these 
words,  and  formed  a  thousand  dif- 
ferent suppositions  in  connexion  with 
them.  The  mystery  was  to  remain  as 
deep  as  ever,  he  had  all  but  promised 
not  to  try  to  discover  it.  A  hard  strug- 
gle it  was,  from  that  day  forward,  to 
conceal  feelings  which  were  stronger 


64 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


than  he  was  aware  of.  During  the 
whole  of  the  past  year  he  had  looked 
forward  to  a  time  when  he  might  avow 
them.  He  had  formed  projects  and 
built  up  schemes  connected  with  a 
vision  of  domestic  happiness.  When 
he  used  to  read  aloud  to  the  assembled 
party  at  St.  Agathe,  or  when  he  drove 
Madame  de  Moldau  in  his  sledge  over 
the  noiseless  frozen  prairies,  or  when 
bringing  home  the  game  after  a  hunt- 
ing expedition,  he  was  always  dream- 
ing of  the  time  when  she  would  be  his 
wife ;  and  as  the  hue  of  health  returned 
to  her  cheek,  and  elasticity  to  her  step, 
as  her  laugh  was  now  and  then  heard 
about  the  house  and  in  the  garden; 
and  above  all,  when  she  began  to  at- 
tend the  Church  of  the  Mission,  and  to 
join  in  all  its  services,  the  dream  turned 
into  a  real  hope,  the  sudden  overthrow 
of  which  was  a  bitter  trial.  Had  she 
given  him  reason  to  hope  ?  Had  she 
encouraged  him  to  love  her  ?  This  is 
often  a  difficult  question  to  answer, 
especially  when  people  have  been 
thrown  together  under  extraordinary 
circumstances,  or  when  affection  may 
exist  to  a  certain  degree  unconsciously. 
He  dwelt  on  that  last  thought.  He  could 
not  but  think  she  cared  for  him,  but 
then,  if  she  was  not  free,  their  relative 
position  was  not  only  a  difficult,  but 
also  a  dangerous  one,  and  perhaps  she 
would  be  advised  to  leave  St.  Agathe, 
or  perhaps  he  ought  to  go  away  him- 
self. This  would  be  scarcely  possible, 
considering  how  his  own  and  M.  de 
Chambelle's  fortunes  were  embarked  in 
his  present  undertakings.  He  felt  him- 
self bound,  and  this  was  the  practical 
resolution  he  formed,  not  to  compli- 
cate the  difficulties  which  might  arise 
on  this  point  by  giving  way  hencefor- 
ward to  the  expression  of  feelings  not 
warranted  by  simple  iriendship.  He 
would  not,  by  word  or  look,  recall  to 
her  mind  the  words  he  had  hastily 
spoken,  or  give  her  reason  to  think 


that  he  cherished  them  in  his  breast — 
nay,  he  would  try  to  subdue  them. 
He  would  work,  not  seven  years  only, 
as  the  patriarch  for  his  bride,  but,  if 
needs  be,  all  his  life,  without  hope  or 
reward.  It  was  a  difficult  resolution  to 
act  up  to,  but  his  sense  of  honour,  his 
feelings  of  generosity  as  well  as  the  dic- 
tates of  conscience,  the  dread  of  driv- 
ing her  away  from  St.  Agathe,  enabled 
him  to  keep  it.  His  strength  of  char- 
acter and  habits  of  self-control  stood 
him  in  good  stead.  She  did  not  guess 
how  much  he  was  suffering,  whilst  every 
thing  went  on  as  usual  in  the  course  of 
their  daily  life. 

Meanwhile,  another  conversion  had 
taken  place  at  St.  Agathe.  M.  de 
Chambelle,  a  philosopher  of  the  new 
school  of  French  infidelity,  a  despiser 
of  creeds,  a  free  thinker,  who  had  taken 
unbelief  on  trust  as  some  do  their  be- 
lief; but  who,  if  he  worshipped  noth- 
ing else,  worshipped  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau— began  to  feel  leanings  towards  a 
religion  which  made  her  look  so  much 
happier.  He  borrowed  a  prayer  book, 
went  to  church  and  tried  to  say  his 
prayers ;  and  when  he  caught  the 
fever,  and  shivering,  weak,  and  mis- 
erable, was  laid  up  for  several  weeks, 
Father  Maret,  like  a  Jesuit  that  he 
was,  sat  up  with  him  night  after  night 
and  robbed  him  of  his  scepticism.  It 
oozed  from  him  in  the  silence  of  those 
watches  whilst  he  lay  suffering  in  his 
uneasy  bed,  and  Christian  love  and 
fatherly  kindness  came  near  for  the 
first  time  to  his  aged  heart.  There 
was  one  green  spot  in  that  poor  with- 
ered heart,  but  it  had  never  been 
watered  by  the  dew  of  heaven.  Life 
had  never  been  much  more  than  a 
ceremony  to  him  till  it  had  become 
a  suffering.  He  had  bowed  and  smiled 
and  fidgeted  through  its  long  course, 
and  was  puzzled  at  finding  what  a 
weary  thing  it  had  become.  But 
when  he  recovered  from  this  illness, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


65 


the  feeble  wistful  face  wore  a  happier 
look.  The  timid  heart  and  narrow 
mind  expanded  in  the  sunshine  of 
faith. 

A  festival  day  was  at  hand  at  the 
Mission.  It  was  to  take  place  on  the 
8th  of  September,  and  great  prepara- 
tions were  making  for  it  both  at  St. 
Agathe  and  at  the  Concession  d'Auban. 
Wreaths  of  flowers,  large  nosegays  of 
roses  and  magnolias,  and  heaps  of  can- 
dles made  of  the  pure  green  wax  of  the 
country,  had  been  conveyed  across  the 
river  on  the  preceding  evening;  and 
early  in  the  morning,  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau,  Simonette,  and  Antoine  joined 
Therese  and  her  friends,  and  helped 
them  to  decorate  the  church.  Beautiful 
were  the  bunches  of  feathers  brought 
by  the  Christian  Indians,  and  the  skins 
of  leopards  and  bisons  which  carpeted 
the  floor  of  the  sanctuary.  Garlands 
of  Spanish  moss\  intermixed  with  white 
and  purple  blossoms,  hung  from  one 
pilaster  to  another  on  both  si4es  of  the 
church. 

In  the  afternoon  there  was  to  be  a 
feast  for  the  children,  and  Simonette 
had  prepared  large  bowls  of  sagamity 
sweetened  with  maple  syrup,  and  baked 
cakes  of  Indian  corn. 

Great  was  the  excitement  of  the 
youthful  assembly,  gay  the  scene,  and 
happy  the  faces  of  the  congregation, 
when,  after  mass,  they  spread  themselves 
over  the  greensward  and  began  to  play 
and  eat  under  the  tulip  trees.  A  French 
fiddler  struck  up  the  "  Carillon  de  Dun- 
querque,"  which  set  his  country  people, 
old  and  young,  dancing  away  with  all 
their  hearts.  The  negroes'  banjoes 
marked  the  cadence  of  their  charac- 
teristic melodies;  whilst  the  Indians 
accompanied  with  yells  and  shrieks 
their  pantomimic  and,  for  the  most 
part,  figurative  performances. 

Madame  de  Moldau  had  never  wit- 
nessed any  thing  like  this  before.     She 
was  much  amused  with  the  animated 
5 


scene,  and,  throwing  down  her  straw 
hat  on  the  grass,  entered  into  its  spirit 
with  the  glee  of  a  child.  As  she  was 
playing  with  a  little  negro  boy,  who 
had  jumped  into  her  arms,  her  hair  got 
unfastened  and  rolled  down  her  back. 

"  Do  call  Simonette  to  put  up  my 
hair,"  she  said,  with  a  bright  smile,  to 
d'Auban,  who  was  standing  a  little  way 
off. 

He  went  to  look  for  her.  Th£r£se 
said  she  was  gone  to  St.  Agathe  to  get 
some  provisions  which  had  been  left 
behind.  He  walked  towards  the  river 
and  saw  her  coming.  He  saw,  the 
minute  he  caught  sight  of  her  face,  that 
she  was  in  one  of  her  troubled  moods. 

"  Madame  de  Moldau  wants  you,"  he 
said. 

"  There  are  people  at  your  house  who 
want  you,  sir,"  she  answered. 

"  Have  you  been  there  ? " 

"  No,  but  I  saw  their  servant  Hans 
at  the  pavilion.  He  says  they  have 
brought  you  letters." 

"Are  they  French?" 

"They  speak  French,  but  I  think 
they  are  Germans  or  Russians." 

"I  must  go  and  see  about  them. 
Will  you  tell  Madame  de  Moldau  that 
perhaps  I  may  bring  them  to  the  village 
this  afternoon  ?  It  will  be  an  amusing 
sight  for  European  travellers." 

"  She  must  come  home,  sir.  M.  de 
Chambelle  is  worse  again.  He  is  gone 
to  bed  with  the  fever." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it;  and 
what  a  pity  that  it  should  be  to-day. 
She  seemed  so  happy — so  amused ! " 

Simonette  made  one  of  her  usual 
shrugs,  and  said,  "  She  had  better  make 
the  best  of  her  time,  then." 

D'Auban  thought  her  manner  very 
disagreeable,  but  he  knew  it  always 
was  so  when  she  was  out  of  temper,  and 
supposed  this  was  just  now  the  case. 
Simonette  went  on  to  the  village,  whilst 
he  crossed  the  river,  and  hastened  first 
to  St.  Agathe,  where  he  found  M.  de 


66 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


Chambelle  ill  in  bed,  as  Simonette  had 
said,  and  somewhat  light-headed — and 
then  to  his  own  house,  where  he  found 
the  three  gentlemen  she  had  mentioned. 

He  had  never  seen  any  of  them  be- 
fore. General  Brockdorf  was  a  stiff, 
military-looking  man,  a  Hanoverian  by 
birth,  but  an  officer  in  the  Russian 
army ;  M.  Reinhart  was  also  a  German, 
and  Count  Levacheff  was  a  Russian. 
He  was  by  far  the  most  pleasing  of  the 
three.  They  had  brought  him  letters 
of  introduction  from  the  Vicomte  de 
Harlay,  and  also  from  M.  Perrier,  at 
whose  house  they  had  been  staying 
during  the  days  they  had  spent  at  New 
Orleans.  They  were  now  travelling  to 
Canada  through  the  Illinois  and  the 
Arkansas. 

After  half  an  hour's  conversation,  he 
set  before  them  some  refreshments,  and, 
begging  them  to  excuse  him  for  a  short 
time,  he  hurried  back  to  St.  Agathe,  to 
see  if  Madame  de  Moldau  had  returned. 
She  was  so  shy  of  strangers,  that  he  did 
not  venture  to  bring  these  travellers  to 
her  house  without  her  permission.  She 
had  just  arrived  with  Simonette,  who 
had  rowed  her  across  the  river.  He 
saw  at  once  that  she  was  very  ner- 
vous. 

"  Some  travellers  are  just  arrived," 
he  said,  as  he  joined  them. 

"  So  I  hear,"  she  answered.  "  Do 
they  stay  long  ? " 

"  No,  only  a  few  hours.  Two  of  them 
are  friends  of  De  Harlay's.  They  would 
like  very  much  to  see  \usfolly.  Would 
you  have  any  objection  to  my  bringing 
them  here  ? " 

"  Who  and  what  are  they  ? " 

D'Auban  mentioned  their  names,  and 
added,  "  I  have  heard  of  the  two  first, 
but  I  know  nothing  of  M.  Reinhart." 

"  He  was  on  board  the  boat  which 
brought  us  up  the  river.  I  would  rather 
not  have  seen  him  again.  Have  they 
told  you  any  news  ?  " 

"  Not  much — nothing  of  importance ; 


but  every  thing  about  the  Old  World 
is  more  or  less  interesting  here." 

"  Where  do  they  come  from  ? " 

"  From  Paris,  in  the  last  instance." 

Madame  de  Moldau  bit  her  lip,  and 
pressed  her  hand  on  her  forehead.  She 
stood  the  picture  of  irresolution. 

"It  is  very  provoking  that  M.  de 
Chambelle  should  be  ill,"  she  said, 
"  and  too  ill  even  to  advise  me." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  would 
have  pained  d'Auban,  if  he  had  not  at 
the  same  time  observed  that  her  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears. 

"  There  is  really  no  necessity  for  your 
seeing  these  gentlemen,"  he  gently  said. 
"  They  need  not  come  at  all  if  it  dis- 
tresses you ;  or,  if  you  like  to  stay  up 
stairs,  I  could  show  them  the  hall  and 
the  verandah." 

"  Oh !  of  course  I  know  I  can  do  as 
I  like." 

This  was  said  with  a  slight  irritation 
of  manner,  which  did  not  escape  him. 
She  seemed  to  have  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty in  making  up  her  mind. 

"  You  can  bring  them  here,"  she  said 
at  last,  but  did  not  mention  whether  it 
was  her  intention  to  see  them  or  not. 

He  supposed  she  meant  to  keep  in 
her  own  apartment. 

When  he  left  the  house  she  went  up 
to  her  father's  room.  He  was  dozing, 
and  talked  in  his  sleep  of  missing  vol- 
umes, and  the  binding  of  a  book  which 
had  been  sent  by  the  King  of  Poland. 
She  sighed  deeply,  gave  some  directions 
to  his  Indian  nurse,  and  went  to  change 
her  dress. 

When  she  came  clown  to  the  parlour 
she  had  put  on  a  large  lace  veil,  which 
nearly  covered  her  face  as  well  as  her 
head.  She  called  Simonette. 

"  Get  the  shawl,"  she  said,  "  which 
we  used  to  hang  against  the  window. 
My  eyes  are  weak;  I  should  like  the 
room  darkened." 

This  was  done,  and  she  sat  down 
with  her  back  to  the  light.  Simonette 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


67 


was  looking  almost  as  nervous  as  her 
mistress.  "Here  are  the  gentlemen," 
she  said,  when  the  hall-door  opened. 

D'Auban  almost  started  with  surprise 
at  finding  her  in  the  parlour,  and  at 
the  darkness  of  the  room.  He  intro- 
duced the  strangers. 

She  greeted  them  with  her  usual 
graceful  dignity  of  manner,  and  then 
said  in  a  low  muffled  voice  which  did 
not  sound  like  her  own :  "I  hope, 
gentlemen,  you  will  excuse  my  receiving 
you  in  so  dark  a  room.  My  health  is 
not  strong,  and  the  light  hurts  my 
eyes." 

D'Auban  thought  of  the  way  he  had 
seen  her  a  few  hours  before  playing 
with  the  children  in  the  broad  sunshine, 
and  a  chilling  sensation  crept  to  his 
heart. 

General  Brockdorf  made  some  com- 
plimentary remarks  on  the  beauty  of 
St.  Agathe,  and  mentioned  his  acquaint- 
ance with  M.  de  Harlay. 

Count  Levacheff,  who  had  also  seen 
him  in  Paris,  playfully  described  the 
Frenchman's  ecstasy  at  finding  himself 
again  in  the  capital  of  the  civilized 
world.  "  For  my  part,"  he  added,  "  I 
find  it  very  interesting  to  travel  through 
a  country  so  unlike  what  one  has  seen 
elsewhere.  The  grandeur  of  the  scenery 
is  sublime,  and  makes  one  forget  the 
vulgar  evils  of  insufficient  provisions, 
tormenting  insects,  and  rapacious  boat- 
men. I  suppose  that  the  beauty  of  the 
country  has  lost  its  novelty,  and  perhaps 
its  charm,  for  you,  madame  ? " 

"The  views  are  beautiful  and  the 
climate  also,"  Madame  de  Moldau  an- 
swered, in  the  same  unnatural  voice. 
Turning  to  General  Brockdorf,  she 
said :  "  Is  it  for  the  sole  pleasure  of 
travelling  that  you  visit  this  country  ? " 

"  Not  altogether,  madame.  The  Em- 
peror of  Russia  has  commissioned  me 
to  draw  up  a  report  of  the  natural 
features  and  peculiar  productions  of 
this  newly-discovered  continent.  Every 


thing  which  tends  to  progress,  to  en- 
lightenment, and  to  civilization  attracts 
the  attention  of  his  imperial  majesty." 

"  Is  the  Czar  as  active  as  ever,"  asked 
d'Auban,  "  in  carrying  out  his  vast  de- 
signs ? " 

"  He  has  achieved  wonders,"  the  Gen- 
eral replied,  "and  only  lives  to  plan 
yet  greater  marvels." 

"  But  are  there  not  men  of  eminence 
and  worth  in  Russia  who,  whilst  they 
allow  the  merits  of  some  of  the  Czar's 
innovations,  do  not  approve  of  his  mode 
of  government,  and  who,  whilst  they 
admire  the  genius  exhibited  in  the 
sudden  creation  of  a  new  capital,  have 
not  transferred  to  it  their  attachment 
to  the  old  Russian  metropolis — time- 
honoured  Moscow  ? " 

"You  are  right,"  exclaimed  Count 
Levacheff,  "the  heart  of  Russia  is  in 
Moscow." 

"  Not  its  brains,"  said  the  General. 

"That  last-mentioned  article,"  ob- 
served Reinhart,  who  had  not  yet 
spoken,  and  who  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Madame  de  Moldau  with  marked  per- 
tinacity, "  the  Czar  chiefly  imports  from 
foreign  countries.  St.  Petersburg  is  a 
haven  of  refuge  for  needy  Frenchmen 
and  German  adventurers.  The  Czaro- 
vitch  has  announced  his  intention  of 
sweeping  away,  when  he  comes  to  the 
throne,  the  invading  hordes,  as  he  calls 
them.  He  is  a  genuine  Muscovite." 

"  He  is  as  great  a  brute  as  ever  lived," 
said  Levacheff. 

"  With  the  exception  of  his  father," 
observed  d'Auban,  who  even  at  that 
distance  of  time  could  not  quite  endure 
to  hear  the  Emperor  mentioned  with 
praise. 

"Ah!  but  there  is  this  difference 
between  them,"  said  the  Count:  "gen- 
ius and  strength  adorn  the  character 
of  the  father  with  a  kind  of  wild  gran- 
deur. The  weakness  of  the  son  makes 
his  brutality  as  despicable  as  it  is  hate- 
ful." 


68 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


"  Is  it  true  that  he  has  lately  returned 
to  Russia  upon  Count  Mentzchikoff's 
assurance  that  he  would  receive  a  full 
pardon  ? " 

"  He  has  certainly  returned,  but  has 
been  thrown  into  prison.  His  friends 
say  he  was  cruelly  deceived.  Others, 
that  some  fresh  plots  were  discovered 
since  that  promise  was  given.  What 
gave  much  surprise  in  Russia  was  his 
taking  refuge  at  the  Emperor  of  Aus- 
tria's court,  seeing  the  reports  which 
were  circulated  at  the  time  of  his  wife's 
death." 

"Was  he  supposed  to  have  had  a 
share  in  her  death  ? " 

"  So  it  was  said.  People  believe  she 
died  in  consequence  of  a  violent  blow 
he  had  given  her.  Others  said  her  attend- 
ants poisoned  her  at  his  instigation." 

"Aye,"  put  in  Reinhart,  "and  ran 
away  with  her  jewels." 

"The  matter  was  hushed  up.  It 
was  thought  the  Prince  would  have 
been  implicated  in  the  matter,  and  the 
Czar  did  not  at  that  time  wish  to  come 
to  extremities  with  him.  Now  it  is 
thought  he  would  be  glad  to  crush 
him.  The  late  princess  was  a  great 
favourite  of  his,  and  he  was  very  angry 
with  his  son  for  the  horrible  way  in 
which  he  treated  her,  as  well  as  for  his 
intrigues  with  the  reactionary  party. 
The  Czarevitch  is  devoted  to  the  old 
Moscovite  cause,  and  fanatically  attach- 
ed to  the  orthodox  religion.  But  the 
politics  of  Russia  are  not,  I  should 
imagine,  the  most  interesting  subject 
of  conversation  to  a  French  lady,  who 
would  no  doubt  prefer  to  hear  of  the 
gaieties  of  Paris,  never  more  brilliant 
than  last  winter." 

M.  Reinhart  moved  his  chair  nearer 
to  Madame  de  Moldau's,  and,  interrupt- 
ing Count  Levacheflf,  said,  "I  fancy 
that  madame  is  better  acquainted  with 
St.  Petersburg  than  with  Paris.  If  I 
am  not  mistaken,  she  has  resided  there 
some  years  ? " 


Simonette  turned  crimson.  Her  hand 
was  resting  on  the  back  of  her  mis- 
tress's chair,  and  she  felt  her  trembling 
violently.  She  answered,  however, 
with  tolerable  composure :  "  I  have 
been  both  at  Paris  and  at  St.  Peters- 
burg." 

D'Auban's  heart  beat  fast  when  she 
said  this.  He  had  never  heard  her  say 
as  much  as  that  before  about  her  past 
life. 

"  Did  not  madame  occupy  a  position 
in  the  household  of  the  late  princess  ? " 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Madame  de 
Moldau  in  a  louder  and  more  distinct 
tone  of  voice  than  before ;  then  slightly 
changing  her  position,  she  turned  to 
Count  Levacheff  and  said,  "  How  was 
the  Empress  Catherine  when  you  left 
St.  Petersburg  ? " 

"  In  good  health,  I  believe,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  You  said,  I  think,  the  Czarovitch 
was  returned  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  he  was  imprisoned  in  his 
palace." 

"Did  you  hear  any  thing  of  his 
son?" 

"  He  lives  in  the  Emperor's  palace." 

"  Is  he  like  his  grandfather  ? " 

"More  like  his  late  mother,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  I  saw  the  young  prince  two  or  three 
times  whilst  I  was  at  St.  Petersburg ; 
but  I  am  not  apt  to  take  much  notice 
of  children,  even  when  they  are  impe- 
rial highnesses.  He  seemed  a  rosy  little 
boy ;  with  fair  curling  hair." 

Madame  de  Moldau  sank  back  in  her 
chair,  apparently  exhausted  with  the 
attempt  she  had  made  at  conversation. 
D'Auban  proposed  to  conduct  the  visit- 
ors over  the  plantation.  But  she  made 
an  effort  tq  sit  up,  and  again  addressed 
Count  Levacheff. 

"  Was  the  Comtesse  de  Konigsmark 
at  St.  Petersburg  ? "  she  asked. 

Before  he  had  time  to  reply,  M.  Rein- 
hart  said  in  a  half-whisper,  "Would 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


69 


not  you  like  to  obtain  some  informa- 
tion, madame,  about  a  casket  which  was 
once  in  the  countess's  care  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  fainted  away. 
Simonette  received  her  into  her  arms, 
but  there  was  no  tenderness  in  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face  as  she  bent  over 
her  drooping  form ;  she  looked  on  her 
colourless  face  with  more  scorn  than 
pity.  D'Auban  felt  angry  and  miser- 
able. He  led  the  strangers  out  of  the 
house  into  the  garden,  and  murmured 
something  to  the  effect  that  Madame 
de  Moldau  was  a  great  invalid. 

"  If  you  take  my  advice,"  said  Rein- 
hart,  "  you  will  have  as  little  as  possi- 
ble to  do  with  that  lady.  I  feel  cer- 
tain now  of  what  I  suspected  at  New 
Orleans." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  exclaimed 
d'Auban  fiercely. 

He  would  willingly  have  thrown  into 
the  river  or  trampled  under  foot  the 
being  who  dared  to  speak  of  Madame 
de  Moldau  in  that  insulting  manner; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  a  sickening 
doubt  stole  into  his  heart. 

Reinhart  was  so  struck  by  his  agita- 
tion, that  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  discretion  is  the  best  part  of 
valour.  He  had  not  the  slightest  wish 
to  entangle  himself  in  a  quarrel  with 
Madame  de  Moldau's  friend,  who 
might  be,  for  aught  he  knew,  a  lover, 
or  even  an  accomplice.  He  therefore 
said,  with  a  forced  smile,  "  The  expla- 
nation is  a  very  simple  one :  from  what 
I  have  heard  of  this  lady's  beauty  and 
charm,  and  what  I  have  seen  myself 
to-day,  I  should  think  there  would  be 
great  danger  of  a  man's  losing  his  heart 
to  her." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  accept  this 
explanation,  and  equally  so  to  believe 
in  its  veracity.  The  conversation  drop- 
ped. Meanwhile  Alexander  Levacheff 
had^disappeared",  As  he  was  leaving 
the  house,  he  had  turned  back,  as  if  by 
an  irresistible  impulse,  and  returned  to 


the  parlour.  The  door  was  open,  the 
window  also.  Madame  de  Moldau's 
veil  had  fallen  off  her  face.  The  light 
was  shining  on  her  pale,  lovely  features. 
Simonette  hastened  to  the  door,  and 
closed  it  almost  in  his  face.  He  stood 
in  the  hall  apparently  transfixed — 
motionless  with  astonishment.  Then, 
sinking  down  on  a  bench,  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands,  and  remained  buried  in 
thought.  D'Auban,  engrossed  and 
agitated  by  Reinhart's  remarks,  had 
not  at  first  noticed  his  absence.  When 
he  did  so,  and  proposed  to  return  for 
him,  General  Brockdorf  objected  that 
they  had  no  time  to  spare ;  that  Leva- 
cheff  did  not  know  a  turnip  from  a 
potato,  or  a  sugar-cane  from  a  coffee- 
plant,  and  would  be  only  too  thankful 
to  have  been  left  behind. 

When  Madame  de  Moldau  had  re- 
covered a  little,  she  went  upstairs  to 
M.  de  Chambelle's  room.  Levacheff 
saw  her  go  by,  but  she  did  not  notice 
him.  After  she  had  passed,  he  pressed 
his  hands  on  his  eyes,  like  a  man  who 
tries  to  rouse  himself  from  a  dream. 

She  had  seated  herself  by  her  father's 
bed  and  dismissed  his  attendant.  He 
was  asleep.  His  aged  features  looked 
thin  and  sharp,  and  his  scanty  gray 
hairs  were  matted  with  perspiration. 
She  rested  her  bead  against  the  bed- 
post, and  faintly  ejaculated.  "Faith- 
ful unto  death!  Faithful  through  a 
strange,  long  trial;  and  now  at  last 
going  to  leave  me.  Oh  patient  and 
devoted  heart  I  am  I  indeed  about  to 
lose  you  ?  Ah !  if  you  had  not  been 
lying  here  helpless  and  unconscious,  I 
should  not  have  seen  those  men  !  Why 
did  I  see  them  ?  It  was  rash — it  was 
imprudent.  I  do  not  know  how  to 
take  care  of  myself.  It  would  have  been 
better  to  have  died.  Oh  no  1  God  for- 
give me  1  what  am  I  saying  ?  I  know 
— I  know,  my  God,  what  mercies  you 
had  in  store  for  me.  You  are  good — 
goodness  itself;  but  I  am  very  weak." 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


She  heard  voices  in  the  garden,  and 
went  to  close  the  window  that  the  sick 
man  might  not  be  disturbed.  It  was 
d'Auban  and  his  companions  going 
away.  Gradually  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps receded.  Simonette  knocked  at 
the  door  and  gave  her  a  slip  of  paper, 
on  which  some  German  words  were 
written.  "White  as  a  marble  statue, 
trembling  and  irresolute,  she  stood 
with  it  in  her  hand,  gazing  on  the 
writing  as  if  to  gain  time  before  she 
answered. 

"  Where  is  the  gentleman  who  gave 
you  this  paper  ? " 

"  In  the  entrance-hall." 

"  Where  are  the  others  ? " 

"  They  have  walked  out  with  M. 
d'Auban." 

"  Show  him  into  my  sitting-room ;  I 
will  see  him  there." 

In  about  an  hour  d'Auban  and  his 
two  companions  returned.  As  he  en- 
tered the  house  he  said  to  Simonette, 
who  was  standing  in  the  porch  talking 
to  Reinhart's  servant : 

"  How  is  your  mistress  ? " 

"  Oh,  pretty  well,  sir  ! "  she  answered 
in  a  careless  tone. 

"Is  she  upstairs?" 

"  She  went  upstairs,  sir,  when  you 
went  out." 

"  Do  you  know  whfere  Count  Leva- 
cheffis?" 

She  turned  away  without  answering. 

Provoked  at  her  uncivil  manner,  he 
sternly  repeated  his  question. 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  a  little,  and 
then  said : 

"  I  am  not  sure,  sir,  if  madame  wishes 
it  known  that  he  is  with  her  in  her  pri- 
vate room." 

At  that  moment,  through  the  thin 
partition-wall  which  divided  the  hall 
from  the  little  sitting-room,  d'Auban 
heard  Madame  de  Moldau  speaking  in 
her  natural  voice,  and  in  a  loud  and 
eager  manner.  These  words  reached 
his  ears : 


"  You  promise,  Count  Levacheff,  that 
you  will  not  tell  any  person  on  earth 
that  you  have  seen  me  ? " 

"Madame,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I 
must ;  but  do  think  better  of  it.  Let 
me  stay,  or  return,  or  at  least 
write—" 

D'Auban  tore  himself  away,  and  or- 
dered Simonette  to  go  away  also.  She 
obeyed,  but  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
and  said : 

"  It  does  not  matter  now  whether  I 
listen  or  not,  M.  d'Auban ;  I  know  all 
about  her." 

It  was  in  an  almost  mechanical  man- 
ner that  d'Auban  performed  the  re- 
maining duties  of  hospitality  towards 
the  travellers.  When  Levacheff  joined 
them  in  tne  verandah  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two 
seemed  most  disinclined  to  conversa- 
tion, most  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts. 
General  Brockdorf 's  unceasing  flow  of 
small  talk  proved  a  great  resource  dur- 
ing the  last  half  hour  of  their  stay. 
At  last  it  was  time  for  them  to  go. 
D'Auban  could  not  bring  himself  so 
much  as  to  mention  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau's  name  in  their  presence;  yet, 
when  they  got  into  their  boat  and 
moved  away  from  the  shore,  he  sighed, 
as  if  feeling  that  he  had  lost  the  last 
chance  of  clearing  away  his  doubts. 
Levacheff  and  Reinhart  evidently  knew 
much  more  about  her  than  he  did. 
For  two  days  he  stayed  away  from  St. 
Agathe ;  on  the  third  he  was  sent  for. 
M.  de  Chambelle  was  much  worse,  and 
wished  to  see  him.  Father  Maret  had 
also  been  summoned,  but  had  not  yet 
arrived.  He  hastened  to  the  pavilion. 
The  sick  man's  couch  had  been  carried 
into  the  parlour,  where  there  was  more 
air  than  upstairs.  Madame  de  Moldau 
was  sitting  by  his  side.  He  was  in  a 
high  fever,  talking  a  great  deal,  and 
much  excited.  When  d'Auban  came  in 
he  cried  out : 

"Ah!   M.  d'Auban,  I  was  afraid  I 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


should  die  without  seeing  you.  Why 
have  you  stayed  so  long  away  ? " 

"I  have  been  very  busy  about  the 
plantations,"  he  evasively  answered. 

Madame  de  Moldau  tried  to  move 
away,  but  she  could  not  disengage  her 
hand  from  her  father's  dying  grasp. 

"  M.  d'Auban,"  cried  the  sick  man  in 
a  feeble  querulous  voice,  "you  must 
make  me  a  promise  before  I  die.  With- 
out it  I  cannot  die  in  peace ;  all  that 
Father  Maret  can  say  is  of  no  use. 
You  know  I  am  a  young  Christian 
though  an  old  man.  Will  you  promise 
to  do  what  I  ask  you  ? " 

"  Any  thing  in  my  power  I  will  do, 
my  dear  friend,  to  meet  your  wishes," 
d'Auban  kindly  answered*, 

"  Will  you,  then,  promise  me  never 
to  leave  her — to  take  care  of  her  as  I 
have  done  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  hastily  bent  over 
the  old  man,  and  said,  "Dear  good 
father,  you  are  asking  what  cannot 
be." 

"  Why  not  ?  why  not  ? "  exclaimed 
M.  de  Chambelle,  raising  himself  in  the 
bed ;  "  it  is  my  only  hope,  my  only  com- 
fort. I  tell  you,  I  cannot,  and  I  will  not 
die,  and  I  will  not  listen  to  what  Father 
Maret  says  about  submitting  to  God's 
will,  if  he  does  not  promise  me  this. 
You  will  be  alone  in  the  world ;  not  one 
friend  left ;  more  lonely  than  a  beggar  in 
the  streets.  That  cannot  be  God's  will. 
Some  days  ago  I  dreamed  that  he 
whom  we  never  speak  of  had  sent  a 
man  to  kill  you.  I  don't  think  it  was 
a  dream.  I  heard  strange  voices  in  the 
house — I  am  sure  I  did.  If  he  sends 
him  again,  who  will  take  care  of  you 
if  M.  d'Auban  does  not  ? "  " 

"  Oh  !  for  heaven's  sake,  dear  father, 
be  quiet,  do  not  talk." 

"  No,  I  will  not  be  quiet — I  will  not 
be  silent — I  must  say  what  is  in  my 
heart.  When  I  went  to  confession  I 
told  Father  Maret  I  hated  somebody ; 
I  did  not  say  who  it  was.  Do  not  try 


to  stop  me.  I  have  always  obeyed 
you —  " 

"Oh,  do  not  say  that!"  exclaimed 
Madame  de  Moldau,  wringing  her 
hands. 

"  But  I  must  speak  now ;  I  must 
plead  your  cause  before  I  die.  Oh, 
Colonel  d'Auban !  will  you  forsake 
her  ? "  He  grasped  her  hand  so  tight- 
ly that  she  could  not  extricate  it, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  with  a  wild  expres- 
sion on  d'Auban's  face.  "Look  at 
her,"  he  cried;  "look  at  her  well. 
She  ought  to  have  sat  upon  a  throne, 
and  men  bowed  down  before  her ;  and 
now  for  so  long  she  has  only  had  me  to 
wait  upon  her- —  " 

Madame  de  Moldau  sank  down  on 
her  knees  by  the  bedside,  pressed  to 
her  lips  the  hand  which  clasped  her 
own,  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  more  than 
father !  patient,  kind,  and  loving  friend ! 
be  silent  now.  Grieve  not  the  heart 
you  have  so  often  comforted.  Listen 
to  your  daughter,  who  would  have 
died  had  it  not  been  for  you.  Had 
God  taken  you  from  me  when  first  we 
landed  on  these  shores,  I  must  have 
perished.  Then,  indeed,  you  would 
have  hafi  reason  to  fear  for  me.  It  is 
different  now.  Let  this  thought  com- 
fort you.  Carry  it  with  you  to  a  bet- 
ter world.  I  have  a  friend  who  will 
never  forsake  me." 

M.  de  Chambelle  turned  his  dying 
eyes  on  d'Auban,  who  stooped  and 
whispered,  "  She  is  not  speaking  of  me. 
God  is  her  friend  now." 

"  Yes,  dear  father,  I  have  a  home  in 
His  church,  a  father  in  His  priest,  friends 
and  brethren  in  the  household  of  the 
faith.  The  words  of  the  Bible,  'Thou 
shalt  no  longer  be  called  the  forsaken 
one,'  apply  to  me,  once  an  outcast  and 
a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  Thou  shalt  no  longer  be  called  the 
forsaken  one ! "  ejaculated  the  old  man, 
gazing  upon  her  with  an  inquiring  look, 
as  if  trying  to  realize  the  meaning  of 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


the  sentence.  Still  he  turned  to  d'Au- 
ban,  and,  drawing  him  nearer  to  him- 
self, whispered  in  his  ear : 

"  Will  you  not  stay  with  her  ? " 

"If  she  will  let  me,  I  will,"  he  an- 
swered in  the  same  low  voice. 

"  Oh,  thank  God  for  that ! " 

"  And  wherever  she  goes,  please  God, 
I  will  watch  over  her." 

"  Oh !  now  I  feel  the  good  God  has 
heard  the  prayer  of  a  poor  old  sinner, 
who  never  did  any  good  in  his  life. 
Where  is  Monsieur  1'Abbe  ?  The  last 
time  he  came  I  would  not  say  I  was 
ready  to  die  if  it  was  God's  will.  You 
see,  I  was  in  waiting ;  there  was  nobody 
to  take  my  place ;  the  second  librarian 
used  to  do  so  sometimes  long  ago.  I 
wonder  if  he  is  dead ;  I  am  sure  he  has 
not  forgotten  her — " 

Madame  de  Moldau  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands ;  there  was  no  checking  the 
old  man's  rambling,  and  he  detained 
d'Auban  in  the  same  way  as  he  detained 
her.  He  was  silent  for  two  or  three 
minutes,  then,  starting  up,  he  turned 
towards  him  in  an  excited  manner. 

"  You  know  I  never  said  you  were  to 
marry  her.  That  would  be  a  mesal- 
liance. What  would  they  say  at  the 
palace?" 

The  blood  rushed  into  d'Auban's  face ; 
but  he  said  in  a  calm  and  steady  voice, 
without  looking  at  Madame  de  Moldau, 
"  His  mind  is-  beginning  to  wander. 
He  does  not  know  what  he  says." 

After  a  while  M.  de  Chambelle  fell 
asleep.  By  the  time  he  woke  again 
Father  Maret  had  arrived.  He  remain- 
ed with  him  awhile  alone,  and  then 
administered  to  him  the  last  Sacraments. 
Extreme  unction  was  followed,  as  it  so 
often  is,  not  only  by  increased  peace 
and  tranquillity  of  soul,  but  by  some 
bodily  improvement.  In  the  afternoon 
he  appeared  to  rally  considerably ;  still 
d'Auban  did  not  venture  to  leave  the 
pavilion,  for  he  was  continually  asking 
for  him.  When  the  sun  was  setting 


and  a  deep  tranquillity  reigned  in  the 
house,  in  which  everybody  moved  with 
a  light  step  and  spoke  under  their 
breath,  he  sat  in  the  porch  with  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau,  conversing  on  the  in- 
terests of  the  Mission  and  the  condition 
of  the  poorer  emigrants,  and  carefully 
avoiding  any  allusion  to  the  past  or  the 
future,  or  the  recent  visit  of  the  Euro- 
pean travellers.  The  soft  westerly  wind, 
laden  with  perfumed  emanations — the 
rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  the  murmuring 
voice  of  the  streamlet  hurrying  towards 
the  river,  like  one  feeble  soul  into  eter- 
nity— the  singing  in  parts  of  some 
German  labourers  at  work  in  the  neigh- 
bouring forest — the  beauty  of  the  sun- 
set sky,  of  the  green  turf  and  the  distant 
view — breathed  peace  and  tranquillity. 
These  soothing  sights  and  sounds  were 
hardly  in  accordance  with  the  sorrowful 
and  anxious  thoughts  which  filled  their 
minds.  Father  Maret  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  glade  saying  his  office. 
When  he  closed  his  book  his  kind  and 
pensive  glance  rested  on  those  two 
dwellers  in  the  wilderness,  the  secrets 
of  whose  hearts  he  was  acquainted  with, 
whose  future  struggles  and  sufferings 
he  foresaw.  The  hours  went  by  on  their 
noiseless  wings,  and  death  hovered  over 
that  pretty  fanciful  Stl  Agathe,  which 
seemed  more  fitting  to  harbour  a  tribe 
of  fairies  than  the  sorrowing  and  the 
dying.  As  the  light  waned,  M.  de  Cham- 
belle  grew  weaker.  The  prayers  for  a 
departing  soul  were  read  over  the  ex- 
piring form  of  one  who  at  the  eleventh 
hour  had  been  received  into  the  fold. 
The  priest  held  the  crucifix  before  his 
dimmed  and  failing  eyes.  He  gazed 
upon  it  earnestly,  and  then  on  Madame 
de  Moldau.  It  was  no  longer  to  human 
friendship  he  was  committing  her.  He 
made  a  sign  that  he  wished  to  speak 
to  her  once  more.  She  bent  over  him, 
and  he  found  strength  to  whisper,  "  I 
have  at  last  forgiven  him."  One  more 
look  at  her,  and  one  at  the  crucifix,  and 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


73 


then  the  old  man  died ;  and  she  whom 
he  had  loved  so  long  and  well  lifted 
up  her  voice  and  wept,  at  first  almost 
inaudibly,  then,  as  the  full  sense  of  her 
loss,  the  terror  of  her  desolate  fate, 
broke  upon  her,  a  loud  and  bitter  cry 
burst  from  her  lips.  My  child !  my 
sister!  When  the  heart  is  wrung  by 
some  great  grief,  when  a  blow  falls  on 
a  closed  but  not  Seared  wound,  there  is 
always  a  cry  of  this  sort.  The  old  man 
weeping  by  the  grave  of  his  child  re- 
members the  wife  of  his  youth.  The. 
bereaved  mother  in  her  hour  of  anguish 
calls  on  her  own  departed  mother.  The 
condemned  criminal  thinks  of  the  priest 
who  taught  him  his  catechism.  The 
past  comes  back  upon  us  in  those  first 
hours  of  overwhelming  sorrow  and  self- 
pity  as  if  the  grave  gave  up  its  dead  to 
haunt  or  to  console  us. 

The  two  kind  friends  by  her  side 
did  not  try  to  check  the  mourner's 
tears.  One  of  them  looked  gently  upon 
her,  like  a  compassionate  angel  to  whom 
God  reveals  the  secret  ways  by  which 
He  trains  a  soul  for  heaven.  The  other 
gazed  on  her  bowed-down  form  with 


the  yearning  wish  to  take  her  to  his 
heart  and  cherish  her  as  his  own ;  but 
he  scarcely  dared  to  utter  the  words  of 
sympathy  which  rose  to  his  lips,  lest 
they  should  be  misunderstood.  His 
mind  was  in  a  dark  and  confused  state. 
New  thoughts  were  working  in  it. 
The"rese  came  to  pray  for  the  dead  and 
to  comfort  the  living.  Simonette  was, 
as  usual,  active  in  doing  every  thing 
needful,  but  there  was  more  displeasure 
than  sorrow  in  her  face ;  and  once, 
when  she  saw  d'Auban  looking  at  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  with  an  expression  of 
anxious  tenderness,  her  brow  darkened 
and  an  impatient  exclamation  escaped 
her  lips. 

The  funeral  was  simply  performed, 
and  the  European  stranger  buried  in 
the  little  cemetery,  where  many  a  wan- 
derer from  the  Old  World  rested  by 
the  side  of  his  Indian  brethren  in  the 
faith.  Many  an  offering  of  fresh-gath- 
ered flowers  was  laid  on  his  grave,  for 
both  settlers  and  natives  had  become 
attached  to  the  kind  childlike  old  man, 
and  pitied  his  daughter's  bereave- 
ment. 


CHAPTEE    VII. 


See  what  a  ready  tongue  suspicion  hath. 


Moreover  something  is  or  seems 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams. 


Shakespeare. 


Tennyson. 


BY  Father  Maret's  advice  Madame 
de  Moldau  came  to  spend  a  few  days 
with  The"rese.  Her  hut  was  clean 
though  a  very  poor  abode,  and  the 
change  of  air  and  scene  proved  benefi- 
cial to  her  health.  The  near  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  church  was  a  great 
comfort  also,  and  to  get  away  from 
Simonette  a  relief.  Her  temper  had 


grown  almost  unbearable,  and  her 
manner  to  her  mistress  very  offensive. 
She  governed  her  household  and  direct- 
ed all  her  affairs,  however,  with  so 
much  zeal  and  intelligence  that  sho 
could  ill  have  spared  her;  but  the 
momentary  separation  seemed  at  this 
time  acceptable  to  both. 

D'Auban  came  sometimes  to  the  vil- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


lage  to  see  Madame  de  Moldau:  but 
since  the  strangers'  visit,  and  especially 
since  what  had  passed  when  they  both 
watched  M.  de  Chambelle's  death-bed, 
they  had  not  felt  at  their  ease  together. 
He  especially  felt  exceedingly  embar- 
rassed in  his  intercourse  with  her.  It 
now  seemed  to  him  evident  that  she 
must  have  occupied  some  position 
which  she  was  intensely  anxious  to 
conceal.  Th  e  promise  he  had  heard  her 
exact  from  Count  Levacheflf  and  poor 
M.  de  Chambelle's  rambling  expressions 
about  a  mesalliance  and  a  palace  point- 
ed to  this  conclusion.  He  racked  his 
brains  to  .form  some  guess,  some  sup- 
position as  to  the  possible  cause  of  her 
retirement  from  the  world  and  the  mys- 
tery in  which  it  was  enveloped.  Once 
it  occurred  to  him  that,  with  the  ro- 
mantic sentimentality  ascribed  to  some 
of  her  countrywomen,  she  had,  per- 
haps, sacrificed  herself,  and  abandoned 
a  lover  or  even  a  husband  for  the  sake 
of  some  other  person,  and  resolved  never 
to  make  her  existence  known.  It  was 
just  possible  that  a  highly-wrought 
sensibility,  a  false  generosity  unchecked 
by  fixed  religious  principles,  might 
have  led  her  into  some  such  course, 
and  involved  her  in  endless  difficulties. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  believe  she  was 
of  noble  birth.  Nobility  was  stamped 
on  her  features,  her  figure,  and  every 
one  of  her  movements.  It  struck  even 
the  Indians.  They  said  she  ought  to 
be  a  Woman-Sun— the  title  given  to 
the  female  sovereigns  of  some  of  their 
tribes.  During  her  stay  with  Therese, 
Madame  de  Moldau  improved  her 
knowledge  of  the  language  of  the 
country,  and  under  her  guidance  occu- 
pied herself  with  works  of  charity.  At 
the  end  of  a  fortnight  she  returned  to 
St.  Agathe.  D'Auban  was  waiting  for 
her  with  his  boat  at  the  spot  they  called 
the  ferry.  He  saw  she  had  been  weep- 
ing, and  his  heart  ached  for  her.  It 
was  a  desolate  thing  to  come  back  to  a 


home  where  neither  relative  nor  friend, 
only  servants,  awaited  her  return.  He 
made  some  remark  of  this  kind  as 
they  approached  the  house. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  sinking  down  on 
the  bench  in  the  porch  with  a  look  of 
deep  despondency — "  yes,  the  return  is 
sad.  "What  will  the  departure  be  ? " 

D'Auban  started  as  if  he  had  been 
shot.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  are 
not  going  away  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  must  go,  and  you  must  not 
ask  me  to  stay." 

He  did  not  utter  a  word,  but  remain- 
ed with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
and  his  lips  tightly  compressed.  She 
was  distressed  at  his  silence,  and  at 
last  said: 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  M.  d'Au- 
ban,  for  resolving  to  doswhat  is  right  ? " 

"Right!"  he  bitterly  exclaimed. 
"Alas!  madame,  can  I  know  what  is 
right  ?  I  know  not  who  you  are,  where 
you  come  from,  where  you  are  going. 
What  I  do  know  is,  that  from  the  first 
day  I  saw  you  my  only  thought  has 
been  to  shield  you  from  suffering,  to 
guard  you  from  danger,  to  watch  over 
you  as  a  father  or  as  a  brother.  When 
you  told  me  to  give  up  other  hopes,  I 
shut  up  my  grief  in  my  heart.  I  never 
allowed  a  word  to  escape  from  my  lips 
which  could  offend  or  displease  you. 
What  more  could  a  man  do  ?  Have  I 
ever  given  you  reason  to  distrust  me  ? 
Have  I  obliged  you  to  go  away  ?  But  I 
am  a  fool ;  what  poor  M.  de  Chambelle 
said  has  misled  me.  You  have  other 
friends,  I  suppose,  other  prospects — " 

"  None." 

"  Then  why — why  must  you  go  ? 
What  has  been  my  fault  ?  Cannot  you 
forget  my  rash  words?  Cannot  you 
rely  on  my  promise  never  again — " 

"Oh,  M.  d'Auban!  it  is  not  your 
fault  that  I  must  go.  It  was  not  your 
fault  that  I  heard  you  say  what  I  can 
never  forget.  Mine  has  been  the  fault. 
Would  that  the  suffering  might  be 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


mine  alone ;  because  your  sympathy  at 
first,  and  then  as  time  went  on  your 
friendship,  was  precious  to  me;  be- 
cause I  thought  only  of  myself,  and  of 
the  consolation  I  found  in  your  society, 
sorrow  has  come  upon  us  both.  Nay, 
I  will  add  one  word  more.  Before  I 
became  a  Catholic  it  did  not  seem  to 
me  quite  impossible  ....  my  ideas 
were  different  from  what  they  now 
are.  ...  I  did  not  consider  myself 
absolutely  bound.  .  .  .  Now,  you  see, 
there  remains  nothing  for  us  but  to 
part." 

"  Why  should  you  think  so  ?  Why 
not  let  me  work  for  you — watch  over 
you  ?  .  .  .  You  can  trust  me." 

A  deep  blush  rose  in  her  cheek,  as 
she  quickly  answered,  "But  I  cannot 
— I  ought  not  to  trust  myself." 

A  strange  feeling  of  mingled  pain 
and  joy  thrilled  through  his  heart,  for 
he  now  felt  that  his  affection  was  re- 
turned ;  but  he  also  saw  that  what  she 
had  said  was  true — that  they  must  part. 
Another  silence  ensued;  then,  with  a 
despairing  resignation,  he  asked,  "  And 
where  can  you  go  ? " 

"To  Canada,"  she  answered.  "Fa- 
ther Maret  will  recommend  me  to  the 
Bishop  of  Montreal  and  to  some  French 
ladies  there." 

"  Will  you  sell  this  property  ?  " 

"  No ;  not  if  you  will  manage  it  for 
me." 

"  Yes,  I  will ;  and  the  day  may  come 
when  you  will  revisit  it." 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  said,  with  a 
mournful  smile — "  when  we  are  both 
very  old." 

"  And  how  will  you  travel  ? " 

"  There  is  a  party  of  missionaries  ex- 
pected here,  and  a  French  gentleman 
and  his  wife.  They  are  on  their  way 
to  Canada.  Father  Maret  is  going  to 
arrange  about  my  joining  them.  He 
hopes  we  may  reach  Montreal  before 
the  wet  season  sets  in." 

"  So  be  it,"  murmured  d'Auban;  and 


from  that  moment  they  both  sought  to 
cheer  and  encourage  each  other,  to 
bear  with  courage  the  approaching 
separation.  With  true  delicacy  of 
feeling  she  showed  him  how  entirely 
she  confided  all  her  interests  to  his 
care— how  she  reposed  on  the  thought 
of  his  disinterested  and  active  friend- 
ship. He  planned  for  the  comfort  of 
her  journey,  and  resolved  to  spare  her 
as  much  as  possible  the  knowledge  of 
what  he  suffered.  In  spite  of  the  re- 
serve she  observed  as  to  the  past  and 
the  sad  uncertainty  of  the  future,  they 
understood  each  other  better  than  they 
had  done  yet,  and  there  was  some  con- 
solation in  that  feeling. 

But  when  he  had  taken  leave  of  her 
that  day,  and  he  thought  that  he 
should  soon  see  her  go  forth  with 
strangers  from  that  house  where  he 
had  so  carefully  watched  over  her,  his 
courage  almost  failed.  The  sight  of 
the  blooming  garden,  the  brightness 
of  the  sunshine,  oppressed  his  soul ; 
and  when  the  sound  of  a  light  French 
carol  struck  on  his  ear  he  turned  round 
and  angrily  addressed  Simonette,  who 
was  watering  the  flowers  in  the  veran- 
dah and  singing  at  the  same  time. 

"  I  am  surprised  to  see  you  in  such 
good  spirits  so  soon  after  your  kind 
old  master's  death,  and  at  the  very 
moment  of  his  daughter's  return  to 
her  desolate  home.  I  thought  there 
was  more  gratitude  in  your  character." 

The  expression  of  her  face  changed 
at  once.  "  Do  you  call  me  ungrateful, 
M.  d'Auban  ? "  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Well,  be  it  so.  Even  that  I  will  put 
up  with  from  you.  But  what  grati- 
tude do  I  owe  to  these  people  ? " 

"  They  are  your  benefactors." 

"  Indeed  1  Is  that  the  meaning  of 
the  word  in  Europe  ?  Is  the  person 
who  devotes  her  time,  her  labour,  and 
her  wits  to  the  service  of  poor  helpless 
beings,  who  can  do  nothing  for  them- 
selves, and  receives  a  little  money  and 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


perhaps  a  few  kind  words  in  return, 
the  obliged  party,  and  they  the  bene- 
factors ?  In  this  country,  I  think,  the 
terms  might  be  reversed." 

D'Auban  felt  even  more  provoked 
with  her  manner  than  her  words,  and 
answered  with  a  frown — 

"I  wonder  that  you  can  speak  of 
your  mistress  in  this  manner." 

"My  mistress  !  I  have  never  consid- 
ered her  as  such.  I  undertook  this 
hateful  service,  M.  d'Auban,  solely  at 
your  request  and  for  your  sake,  and 
you  call  me  ungrateful.  You  speak 
unkindly  to  me,  who  have  worked 
hard  for  these  people  because  you 
wished  it,  and  that  your  will  has 
always  been  a  law  to  me.  For  your 
sake,  and  in  a  way  you  do  not  know 
and  do  not  understand,  I  have  suffered 
the  most  cruel  anxiety.  Because  I 
have  been  afraid  of  your  displeasure 
I  have  been  silent  when  perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  spoken ;  and  yet  for 
your  sake  I  ought  to  speak,  and,  at 
the  risk  of  making  you  angry,  I  will. 
Yes,  at  all  risks,  I  must  say  it.  You 
are  blind — you  are  infatuated  about 
that  woman —  " 

"  Hush !  I  will  not  hear  such  lan- 
guage as  this." 

"But  you  must  hear  it,  or  I  will 
expose  her  to  those  who  will  listen  to 
the  truth.  Others  shall  hear  me  if  you 
will  not." 

"  Speak  then,"  said  d'Auban  sternly. 
The  time  had  arrived  when  he  felt  him- 
self justified  in  listening  to  Simonette's 
disclosures.  Matters  had  come  to  a 
crisis,  and  on  Madame  de  Moldau's 
own  account  it  was  necessary  he  should 
hear  what  Simonette  had  to  say.  He 
made  a  sign  to  her  to  sit  down,  and 
stood  before  her  with  his  arms  folded 
and  looking  so  stern  that  she  began  to 
tremble.  "  Speak,"  he  again  said,  with 
more  vehemence  than  before,  for  he 
saw  she  hesitated. 

At  last  she  steadied  her  voice  and 


spoke  as  follows :  "  Sir,  it  was  at  New 
Orleans  that  I  first  saw  Madame  de 
Moldau.  I  heard  at  that  time  that 
there  was  something  mysterious  about 
her.  People  said  she  was  not  called 
by  her  real  name,  and  a  servant,  who 
arrived  there  with  her,  and  soon 
after  returned  to  Europe,  let  fall 
some  hints  that  she  had  reasons  for 
concealing  her  own.  She  and  her 
father  came  on  board  our  boat  at 
night;  M.  Reinhart,  and  his  servant 
Hans,  were  amongst  the  passengers. 
He  said  he  had  seen  her  before,  and 
that  there  were  strange  stories  about 
them — that  they  were  supposed  to  be 
adventurers,  or  even  swindlers.  No- 
body could  understand  why  an  old 
man  and  a  handsome  delicate  woman, 
not  apparently  in  any  want  of  money, 
should  come  to  this  country  with  the 
intention  of  taking  up  their  abode  in 
a  remote  settlement.  At  Fort  St.  Louis 
M.  Reinhart  and  Hans  left  us,  and  I 
did  not  see  them  again  till  they  came 
here  with  those  other  gentlemen. 
"When  you  proposed  to  me  to  enter 
Madame  de  Moldau's  service,  you  must, 
I  am  sure,  remember  that  I  declined 
to  do  so.  I  only  wish  I  had  persevered 
in  my  refusal.  But  you  seemed  very 
anxious  I  should  accept  your  offer. 
You  said  it  would  be  an  act  of  char- 
ity. You  did  not  speak  of  benefactors 
then.  My  father  urged  me  also.  But 
what  really  decided  me  was  this  :  It 
was  said  you  admired  her,  and  that 
you  would  soon  marry  the  lady  at 
St.  Agathe.  I  thought  if  I  lived  with 
her  I  should  be  sure  to  find  out  whether 
the  stories  about  her  were  true  or  false, 
and  that  I  might  be  the  means  of  sav- 
ing you  from  marrying  an  impostor — " 

"  You  have  no  right  to  speak  in  that 
way,"  interrupted  d'Auban,  tried  be- 
yond endurance  by  the  girl's  language 
and  manner.  "  It  is  a  vile  calumny." 

"It  is  no  such  thing,  M.  d'Auban; 
you  desired  me  to  speak  and  you  must 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


77 


hear  me  to  the  end.  I  know  she  does 
not  seem  an  impostor — I  can  hardly 
believe  her  to  be  one ;  but  you  shall 
judge  yourself.  Well  might  people 
wonder  where  their  money  came  from ! 
I  soon  found  out  that  she  had  many 
rich  jewels  in  her  possession.  One  of 
the  things  Hans  had  told  me  was,  that 
her  father  had  sold  some  valuable  dia- 
monds at  New  Orleans,  and  lodged  the 
money  in  a  banker's  hand.  It  was 
reported  at  the  same  time  that,  in  a 
palace  in  Europe,  a  casket  was  stolen 
which  contained  the  jewels  of  a  prin- 
cess lately  dead.  It  must  have  been 
the  princess  mentioned  in  the  news- 
paper you  were  reading  out  loud  one 
night  some  days  ago,  and  which  mad- 
ame  sent  me  to  borrow  from  you  the 
next  morning.  Well,  the  report  was 
that  her  servants  had  stolen  this  casket 
and  fled  the  country." 

"St.  Petersbarg  was  the  town  you 
mean,  and  the  princess,  the  wife  of  the 
Czarovitch  of  Russia." 

"  Yes,  the  Princess  Charlotte,  I  think 
they  called  her.  Hans  says  his  master 
is  persuaded  that  these  people  are  those 
very  servants." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"He  says  that  M.  de  Chambelle's 
real  name  is  Sasse,  and  that  he  lived 
at  the  court  of  the  princess's  father; 
that  he  saw  him  there  a  great  many 
years  ago.  And  now  I  must  tell  you 
what  I  myself  discovered.  I  picked  up 
on  the  grass  near  the  house  a  casket 
with  a  picture  inside  it  set  in  diamonds, 
and  on  the  back  of  the  casket,  in  small 
pearls,  was  written  the  name  of  Peter 
the  First,  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias. 
I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes,  and  the 
diamonds  were  very  large,  and  the  gold 
beautifully  worked.  I  have  seen  things 
of  this  sort  at  New  Orleans,  but  nothing 
half  so  handsome." 

"  You  saw  this  with  your  own  eyes ! " 
repeated  d'Auban,  turning  very  pale. 
"But  are  you  certain  it  belonged  to 


Madame  de  Moldau  ? "  he  quickly  add- 
ed. "  What  did  you  do  with  it  ? " 

"  T  was  almost  inclined  to  take  it  to 
you,  sir,  or  to  Father  Maret;  but  on 
the  whole  thought  it  best  to  return  it 
to  her." 

"  And  when  you  did  so  ?" 

*'  She  seemed  embarrassed,  but  said 
it  was  her  property.  And  I  made  some 
observations  which  were  painful  to  her, 
about  people  having  secrets;  and  she 
spoke  of  parting  with  me.  But  it  did 
not  come  to  that.  She  did  not  really 
wish  me  to  go,  nor  did  I  really  wish  to 
leave  her.  I  have  never  been  happy 
since  that  time.  Sometimes  I  cannot 
help  feeling  sorry  for  her ;  but  when  I 
think  she  is  deceiving  you,  I  should 
like  to  drag  her  before  the  governor 
and  accuse  her  to  her  face.  When 
those  gentlemen  came  here,  Hans  told 
me  that  the  story  of  the  stolen  jewels 
was  talked  of  more  than  ever  at  New 
Orleans,  and  people  now  say  that  the 
princess  was  murdered,  that  her  husband 
was  concerned  in  it,  and  had  himself 
helped  the  servants  to  escape.  Did 
you  not  notice  that  M.  Reinhart  asked 
her  that  day  if  she  had  been  in  the 
princess's  household  ?  She  answered, 
*  No ; '  but  I  could  feel,  as  I  held  the 
back  of  her  chair,  that  she  trembled, 
and  when  he  spoke  of  the  casket,  then 
she  fainted  right  away.  Good  heavens ! 
how  ill  you  look,  M.  d'Auban  !  Alas ! 
alas !  what  can  I  do  ?  I  am  only  speak- 
ing the  truth.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart 
it  was  otherwise.  Hate  me  if  you  will, 
despise,  disbelieve  me,  but  do  not  be 
rash.  Do  not  marry  this  deceitful  wo- 
man. You  suspect  me,  perhaps.  You 
think  that  I  hope  or  expect  ...  Oh 
never,  never  in  my  wildest  dreams  has 
such  a  thought  crossed  my  mind !  If 
she  was  as  good  as  she  looks,  if  she 
would  make  you  happy,  willingly  would 
I  be  her  slave  and  yours  all  my  life. 
If  you  knew  how  wretched  it  makes 
me  to  see  you  look  so  miserable  1 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


But,  oh  I  if  you  marry  her  and  she  is 
guilty!-' 

"  My  dear  Simonette,"  said  d'Auban, 
interrupting  her,  but  speaking  much 
more  gently  than  he  had  yet  done,  "  I 
am  sure  you  mean  kindly  by  me.  I 
should  be  indeed  ungrateful  did  I  not 
believe  in  your  sincerity.  The  circum- 
stances you  have  related  are  most  ex- 
traordinary ;  I  certainly  cannot  at  this 
moment  account  for  them.  But  still,  I 
would  entreat  you  to  suspend  your  judg- 
ment. Do  not  decide  against  her  till 
you  know  more." 

"Ah!  that  is  what  Father  Maret 
always  says;  but  I  am  afraid  she  de- 
ceives you  both." 

D'Auban  eagerly  caught  at  those 
words.  "  Is  that  what  he  says  ?  Then 
Tie  does  not  think  her  guilty  ? " 

"  He  does  not  say  one  thing  or  the 
other." 

"  Well,  Simonette,  I  again  thank  you 
for  your  kindness  to  myself,  and  I  en- 
treat you,  for  the  present,  at  least,  not 
to  speak  on  this  subject  to  any  one  else. 
I  feel  bound  to  tell  you  that,  in  spite 
of  the  apparent  evidence  to  the  contrary, 
I  still  firmly  believe  in  Madame  de 
Moldau's  innocence." 

"  And  you  will  marry  her  ? "  exclaim- 
ed Simonette,  wringing  her  hands. 

D'Auban  tried  to  speak  calmly,  but 
he  felt  as  if  the  secret  recesses  of  his 
heart  were  being  probed  by  the  poor, 
girl's  pertinacious  solicitude. 

"  There  is  not  the  least  prospect  of 
my  marrying  Madame  de  Moldau.  Do 
not  distress  yourself  on  that  point ;  and 
for  my  sake  be  kind  and  attentive  to 
her  during  the  time  she  will  yet  remain 
here." 

"  Is  she  going  away,  sir  ? " 

D'Auban  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  She  looked  at  him  with  an- 
guish. "How  you  must  hate  me!" 
she  murmured. 

"No,"  he  said,  recovering  his  com- 
posure. "No,  Simonette,  much  as  I 


suffer,  I  do  not  blame  you,  my  poor 
girl.  It  is  natural  you  should  have  had 
suspicions — it  could  not  have  been 
otherwise.  But  I  cannot-  talk  to  you 
any  more  now;  I  must  be  alone  and 
think  over  what  you  have  told  me. 
May  we  all  do  what  is  right.  If  you 
are  going  to  the  village  this  evening, 
tell  Father  Maret  I  will  call  on  him 
early  to-morrow,  and  ask  him  and  The- 
rese  to  pray  for  us." 

That  evening  he  sat  in  his  study 
gazing  on  the  glowing  embers  and 
absorbed  in  thought.  Sometimes  he 
started  up  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  making  a  full  stop  now  and 
then,  or,  going  up  to  the  chimney, 
rested  his  head  on  his  hands.  "It 
would  be  too  strange — too  incredible," 
he  ejaculated ;  "  and  yet  the  more  I 
think  of  it,  the  more  doe's  the  idea  gain 
upon  me.  No,  no ;  it  is  a  trick  of  the 
imagination.  If  it  was  so,  how  did  I 
never  come  to  think  of  it  before  ?  Yet 
it  tallies  with  all  the  rest.  It  would 
explain  every  thing.  But  I  think  I  am 
going  out  of  my  mind  to  suppose  such 
a  thing." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
when  he  said  "Come  in,"  Simon  ap- 
peared. 

He  had  returned,  he  said,  from  the 
north  lakes,  whither  he  had  accompa- 
nied the  travellers  who  had  lately  been 
d'Auban's  guests.  He  thought  he  would 
like  to  hear  of  their  having  journeyed 
so  far  in  safety.  Hans  had  come  back 
with  him ;  he  had  had  a  dispute  with 
his  master  about  wages,  and  they  had 
parted  company.  "  He  is  gone  to  St. 
Agathe  this  evening;  I  fancy  he  ad- 
mires my  girl.  They  have  always  plenty 
to  say  to  each  other.  He  is  a  sharp 
fellow,  Hans,  and  does  not  let  the  grass 
grow  under  his  feet." 

D'Auban  felt  a  vague  uneasiness  at 
hearing  of  this  man's  return.  It  was 
from  him  Simonette  had  heard  all  the 
stories  against  Madame  de  Moldau.  "  I 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


should  not  think,"  he  said,  "  that  this 
man  can  be  a  desirable  acquaintance 
for  your  daughter." 

"He  seems  a  good  fellow  enough, 
and  says  that  if  she  will  take  his  advice 
he  can  show  her  how  to  better  herself." 

"  In  what  way  ? " 

"  He  does  not  exactly  say,  but  I  don't 
see  why  she  should  leave  her  present 
situation.  Her  wages  are  good,  and  I 
do  not  find  she  has  any  thing  to  com- 
plain of;  but  she  has  always  had  a 
queer  sort  of  temper.  For  my  part, 
I  think  she  might  go  farther  and  fare 
worse.  Well,  M.  d'Auban,  I  only  just 
looked  in  to  let  you  know  about  your 
friends ;  I  am  oif  again  to-morrow  to 
the  Arkansas.  Have  you  any  com- 
mands ? " 

"  No,  thank  you,  nothing  this  time. 
But  just  stop  a  minute ;  you  have  not 
had  a  glass  of  my  French  brandy. 
What  do  you  know  of  this  Hans's  for- 
mer history  ? " 

"  Not  much.  He  has  been  in  Spain, 
and  Italy,  and  Russia.  We  never  do 
know  much  of  the  people  who  come 
out  here." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  warn  Simon  - 
ette  not  to  act  on  his  advice  as  regards 
a  change  of  situation.  He  cannot  be  a 
safe  adviser  or  companion  for  her." 

"  She  does  not  like  him  a  bit.  The 
girl's  as  proud  as  a  peacock;  I  wish 
she  was  married  and  off  my  hands. 
Well,  this  is  good  cognac,  M.  d'Auban. 
It  does  a  man's  heart  good,  and  puts 
him  in  mind  of  la  belle  France.  I  was 
thinking,  as  I  walked  here,  how  good 
your  brandy  always  is." 

"It  was  fortunate,  then,  I  did  not 
forget  to  offer  you  a  glass  of  it,"  d'Au- 
ban said  with  a  smile. 

When  the  bargeman  was  gone  he 
began  again  to  turn  over  in  his  mind 
the  new  strange  thought  which  had 
occupied  him  for  the  last  two  or  three 
hours.  From  the  first  day  he  had  made 
Madame  de  Moldau's  acquaintance  he 


had  been  haunted  by  a  fancy  that  he 
had  seen  her  before,  that  her  face  was 
not  new  to  him.  But  that  afternoon, 
whilst  Simonette  was  talking  to  him, 
when  she  mentioned  the  wife  of  the 
Czarovitch  (the  Princess  Charlotte 
of  Brunswick),  the  thought  darted 
through  his  mind  that  the  person  she 
reminded  him  of  was  this  very  princess. 
This  idea  brought  with  it  a  whole  train 
of  recollections.  Some  seven  or  eight 
years  ago  he  was  travelling  with  Gen- 
eral Lefort,  and  they  had  stopped  for 
two  days  at  Wolfenbuttel,  and  been 
invited  to  a  dinner  and  a  ball  at  the 
ducal  palace.  Now  that  he  came  to 
think  of  it,  what  an  astonishing  like- 
ness there  was  between  the  lady  at  St. 
Agathe  and  the  Czarevitch's  affianced 
bride  as  he  remembered  her  in  her  girl- 
hood,— a  fair  creature,  delicate  as  a 
harebell,  and  white  as  a  snowdrop.  But 
it  was  impossible.  He  laughed  at  him- 
self for  giving  a  serious  thought  to  so 
preposterous  a  conjecture,  for  was  it 
not  well  known  that  that  princess  was 
dead?  Had  she  not  been  carried  in 
state  to  her  escutcheoned  tomb, 

With  knightly  plumes  and  banners  all  wav- 
ing in  the  wind, 

and  her  broken  heart  laid  to  rest  under 
a  monumental  stone  as  hard  as  her  fate 
and  as  silent  as  her  misery  ?  Can  the 
grave  give  up  its  dead  ?  Had  she  re- 
turned from  the  threshold  of  another 
world  ?  Such  things  have  been  heard 
of.  Truth  is  sometimes  more  extra- 
ordinary than  fiction.  He  thought  of 
the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  of 
the  young  Ginevra  rescued  from  the 
charnel-house  by  her  Florentine  lover. 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  state  of 
excitement  in  which  he  spent  that 
night — now  convinced  that  his  con- 
jecture was  a  reality,  now  scouting  it 
as  an  absurdity — sometimes  wishing  it 
might  prove  true,  sometimes  hoping  it 
migfct  turn  out  false ;  for  if  the  chivalry 


80 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


and  romance  of  his  nature  made  him 
long  to  see  the  woman  he  loved  at 
once  cleared  from  the  least  suspicion, 
and  to  pay  that  homage  to  her  as  a 
princess  which  he  had  instinctively 
rendered  to  the  daughter  of  an  obscure 
emigrant;  on  the  other  hand,  if  she 
was  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Bruns- 
wick, she  was  also  the  wedded  wife  of 
the  Czarovitch,  and  he  saw  the  full 
meaning  of  the  words  she  had  said  on 
the  day  she  had  been  received  into  a 
Church  in  which  the  holy  band  of 
marriage  is  never  unloosed,  where 
neither  ill-usage,  nor  desertion,  nor 
crime,  nor  separation,  annihilates  the 
vow  once  uttered  before  the  altar. 
Though  an  ocean  may  roll  its  ceaseless 
tides  and  a  lifetime  its  revolving  years 
between  those  it  has  united,  the  Catho- 
lic Church  never  sanctions  the  sever- 
ance of  that  tie,  but  still  reiterates  the 
warning  of  John  the  Baptist  to  a  guilty 
king,  and  that  of  Pope  Clement  VII., 
fifteen  hundred  years  later,  to  a  licen- 
tious monarch,  "It  is  not  lawful;  it 
may  not  be." 

Of  one  thing  he  felt  certain.  If  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  was  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte, it  was  impossible  to  conceive  a 
more  extraordinary  or  more  interesting 
position  than  hers,  or  one  more  fitted 
to  command  a  disinterested  allegiance 
and  unselfish  devotion  from  the  man 
she  had  honoured  with  her  friendship. 
If  something  so  incredible  could  be 
true,  every  mystery  would  be  explained 
— every  doubt  would  be  solved.  The 
blood  rushed  to  his  face  as  he  thought 
of  the  proposal  of  marriage  he  had  made 
to  one  of  so  exalted  a  rank,  and  of 
the  feelings  which  it  must  have  awak- 
ened in  her  breast.  "Perhaps,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  "  though  too  gen- 
erous to  resent  it,  she  may  have  found 
in  those  words  spoken  in  ignorance 
one  of  the  bitterest  and  most  humiliat- 
ing evidences  of  her  fallen  position ;  " 
but  then  he  remembered  the* tacit 


avowal  Madame  de  Moldau  had  made 
of  feelings  which  did  not  imply  that 
she  was  indifferent  to  his  attachment. 
"  Ah  !  "  he  again  thought,  "  she  may 
wish  to  withdraw  not  only  from  the 
man  she  may  not  wed,  but  from  him 
whose  presumptuous  attachment  was 
an  unconscious  insult !  But  I  am  mad, 
quite  mad,"  he  would  exclaim,  "  to  be 
reasoning  on  so  absurd  an  hypothesis, 
to  be  building  a  whole  tissue  of  conjec- 
tures on  an  utter  impossibility;  but 
then  M.  de  Chambelle's  dying  words 
recurred  to  him — those  strange  inco- 
herent expressions  about  a  mesalliance 
and  a  palace,  and  their  relations  togeth- 
er, so  unlike  those  of  a  father  and  a 
child,  and  yet  so  full  of  devotion  on 
his  side  and  of  gratitude  on  hers. 

One  by  one  he  went  over  all  the  cir- 
cumstances Simonette  had  related. 
The  reports  at  New  Orleans,  the  sale 
of  the  jewels,  the  Czar's  picture  in  her 
possession,  the  stranger's  visit,  her 
agitation  when  the  casket  was  men- 
tioned— every  thing  tallied  with  his 
wild  guess.  It  would  have  been  evi- 
dent had  it  not  been  incredible.  As  it 
was,  he  felt  utterly  bewildered. 

As  soon  as  light  dawned  he  rode  to 
the  village.  There  he  heard  that  Han3 
had  gone  away  in  the  night  with  a  party 
of  coureurs  des  lois.  He  breakfasted 
with  Father  Maret,  and  all  the  time 
was  wondering  if,  supposing  Madame 
de  Moldau  was  the  princess,  he  was 
aware  of  it.  She  said  she  had  told 
him  every  thing  about  herself,  so  he 
supposed  he  did.  This  thought  in- 
spired him  with  a  sort  of  embarrass- 
ment, and,  though  longing  to  speak  of 
what  his  mind  was  full  of,  he  did  not 
mention  her  name.  As  soon  as  the 
meal  was  over  he  returned  to  St. 
Agathe,  where  he  had  business  to 
transact  with  Madame  de  Moldau.  He 
found  her  sitting  at  a  table  in  the 
verandah  looking  over  the  map  of  the 
concession.  She  raised  her  eyes,  so 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


81 


full  in  their  blue  depths  of  a  soft  and 
dreamy  beauty,  to  greet  him  as  he 
approached,  and  he  felt  sure  at  that 
moment  that  they  were  the  eyes  of  the 
royal  maiden  of  seventeen  years  of  age 
with  whom  he  had  danced  one  night 
in  her  father's  palace.  He  sat  down 
by  her  as  usual,  and  they  began  talk- 
ing of  business;  but  he  was,  for  the 
first  time  perhaps  in  his  life,  absent 
and  inattentive  to  the  subject  before 
him.  He  was  reverting  to  one  of  those 
trilling  circumstances  which  remain 
impressed  on  a  person's  memory,  and 
which  just  then  came  back  into  his 
mind.  When  the  young  princess  was 
dancing  with  him  she  had  mentioned 
that  the  lady  opposite  to  them  had 
undergone  a  painful  operation  to  im- 
prove the  beauty  of  her  features.  "  I 
do  not  think  it  was  worth  while,"  she 
said ;  and  then,  pointing  to  a  mole  on 
her  own  arm,  had  added — "  I  have  been 
sometimes  advised  to  have  this  mole 
burnt  off,  but  I  never  would." 

He  remembered  as  well  as  possible 
where  that  mole  was — a  little  higher 
than  the  wrist,  between  the  hand  and 
the  elbow  of  the  left  arm.  Could  he 
but  see  the  arm,  which  was  resting 
near  him  on  the  table  covered  by  a  lace 
sleeve,  all  doubt  would  be  at  an  end. 
He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  it,  and 
watched  her  hand  which  was  taking 
pencil  notes  of  what  he  was  saying. 
At  that  moment  a  small  spider  crept 
out  of  a  bunch  of  flowers  on  to  the 
table,  and  then  towards  the  sleeve  so 
anxiously  watched.  D'Auban  noticed 
its  progress  with  the  same  anxiety  with 
which  Robert  Bruce  must  have  ob- 
served that  of  the  insect  whose  per- 
severance decided  his  own.  The  crea- 
ture passed  from  the  lace  edging  to  the 
white  arm.  Madame  de  Moldau  gave 
a  little  scream  and  pulled  up  the  sleeve. 
D'Auban  removed  the  insect,  and  saw 
the  mole  in  the  very  spot  where  he  re- 
membered it.  He  carried  away  the 
6 


spider  and  laid  it  on  the  grass.  His- 
heart  was  beating  like  the  pendulum 
of  a  clock;  he  did  not  understand  a 
word  she  was  saying.  He  could  only 
look  at  her  with  speechless  emotion. 

"  Sit  down  again,  M.  d'Auban,"  she 
said,  "and  explain  to  me  where  you 
want  to  build  those  huts." 

He  hesitated,  made  as  if  he  was  going 
to  do  as  she  desired,  but,  suddenly 
sinking  down  on  one  knee  by  her 
side,  he  took  her  hand  and  raised  it 
with  the  deepest  respect  to  his  lips. 
She  turned  round,  surprised  at  this 
action,  and  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were 
full  of  tears. 

"  What  has  happened  ? — what  is  the 
matter  ? "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Nothing,  Princess,  only  I  know 
every  thing  now.  Forgive,  forget  the 
past,  and  allow  me  henceforward  to  be 
your  servant." 

"  You  !  my  servant  1  God  forbid  1 
But,  good  heavens !  who  has  told  you  ? 
M.  d'Auban,  I  had  promised  never  to 
reveal  this  secret." 

"  You  have  kept  your  promise,  Prin- 
cess ;  nothing  but  accidental  circum- 
stances have  made  it  known  to  me.  Do 
not  look  so  scared.  What  have  you  to 
fear  ? " 

"  Oh  !  if  you  knew  what  a  strange 
feeling  it  is  to  be  known,  to  be  ad- 
dressed in  that  old  way  again.  It  agi- 
tates me,  and  yet — there  is  a  sweetness 
in  it.  But  how  did  you  discover  this 
incredible  fact  ? " 

"  It  is  a  long  story,  Princess.  I  saw 
you  some  years  ago  at  Wolfenbuttel ; 
but  it  is  only  since  yesterday  that  I 
have  connected  that  recollection  with 
the  impression  I  have  had  all  along 
that  we  were  not  meeting  for  the  first 
time  here." 

"  Have  you  indeed  had  that  feeling, 
M.  d'Auban  ?  So  have  I ;  but  I  thought 
it  must  be  fancy.  Did  we  meet  in  Rus- 
sia?" 

"No;    I  left  St.  Petersburg  before 


82 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


your  Imperial  Highness  arrived  there. 
It  was  at  the  Palace  of  "Wolfenbuttel 
that  I  saw  you,  a  few  months  before 
your  marriage.  I  was  there  with  Gen- 
eral Lefort." 

"  Is  it  possible !  I  feel  as  if  I  was 
dreaming.  Is  it  really  I  who  am  talk- 
ing of  my  own  self  and  of  my  former 
name,  and  as  quietly  as  if  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  course  ?  But  how  extraordinary 
it  is  that  you  should  have  suddenly 
recollected  where  you  had  seen  me ! 
What  led  to  it  ? " 

"  Simonette's  suspicions  about  some 
jewels,  and  a  picture  in  your  posses- 
sion." 

"  Oh  yes.  I  believe  the  poor  girl 
thinks  I  have  stolen  them.  I  perceived 
that  some  time  ago.  I  have  been  very 
careless  in  leaving  such  things  about. 
I  do  not  see  any  way  of  explaining  to 
her  how  I  came  by  them;  but  as  I 
am  going  soon,  it  does  not  signify  so 
much." 

"Do  you  still  think  you  must  go, 
Princess  ?  Does.not  my  knowledge  of 
what  you  are  alter  our  relative  posi- 
tions. If,  imploring  at  your  feet  for- 
giveness for  the  past,  I  promise — " 

"  Oh,  kindest  and  best  of  friends, 
believe  me  when  I  say,  that  it  is  the 
wedded  wife,  not  the  Imperial  High- 
ness who  feels  herself  obliged  to  forego 
what  has  been  a  blessing,  but  what 
might  become  a  temptation.  In  your 
conduct  there  has  been  nothing  but 
goodness  and  generosity.  Would  I 
could  say  the  same  of  mine.  My  only 
excuse  is  that  my  destiny  was  so  un- 
exampled that  I  deemed  myself  bound 
by  no  ordinary  rules.  I  fancied  neither 
God  nor  man  would  call  me  to  account 
for  its  driftless  course.  I  should  have 
let  you  know  at  once  that  there  were 
reasons  of  every  sort  why  we  could 
never  be  any  thing  more  than  friends 
to  each  other.  In  those  days  I  never 
looked  into  my  own  heart,  or  into  the 
future  at  all.  Bewildered  by  the  pecu- 


liarity of  my  fate,  I  felt  as  if  every  tie 
was  broken,  every  link  with  the  past 
at  an  end,  save  the  only  one  which  can 
never  be  dissolved — a  mother's  love  for 
her  child.  I  applied  to  myself  the 
words  of  the  Bible,  '  Free  amongst  the 
dead ; '  for  I  had  passed  through  the 
portals  of  the  grave.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  I  had  survived  my  former  self,  and 
that  ties  and  duties  were  buried  in  the 
grave  on  which  my  name  is  inscribed. 
I  lived  in  a  state  that  can  hardly 
be  conceived.  It  was  like  groping 
amongst  shadows.  Nothing  seemed 
real  in  or  around  me.  You  raised  me 
from  that  death-like  despondency,  that 
cold  and  silent  despair.  You  made 
me  understand  that  it  was  worth  while 
to  live  and  to  struggle." 

She  paused  as  if  to  collect  her 
thoughts,  and  then  said  with  a  melan- 
choly smile : 

"  Then  you  know  who  I  am  ? " 

"  Yes,  Princess  ;  and  in  that  knowl- 
edge there  is  both  sadness  and  joy." 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you  long  ago 
that  I  was  married." 

"Forgive  me,  Princess,  for  having 
dared—" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  On  the 
contrary,  my  gratitude  for  what  you 
have  done  for  me  is  too  deep,  too  vast, 
for  words.  I  do  not  know  how  to  ex- 
press it.  You  showed  me  there  could 
be  happiness  in  the  world,  even  for 
me.  And  then  you  taught  me  by  your 
example,  still  more  than  by  your  words, 
that  there  is  something  better  and 
higher  than  earthly  happiness.  You 
made  me  believe  in  the  religion  which 
bids  me  part  from  you,  and  which  gives 
me  the  strength  to  do  so." 

"  Thank  God  that  we  have  met  and 
not  met  in  vain,"  d'Auban  answered, 
with  the  deepest  feeling.  "Thank 
God  for  the  sufferings  of'  a  separation 
more  bitter  than  death,  if  we  do  but 
meet  at  last  where  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling — " 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


"Ay,  and  where  the  weary  are  at 
rest.  But  now,  even  now,  I  am  at  rest," 
she  added  with  an  expression  of  wonder- 
ful sweetness,  "  almost  for  the  first  time 
of  my  life ;  and  though  when  I  go  from 
hence  and  leave  you  and  Father  Maret 
behind,  I  shall  be  the  most  lonely,  per- 
haps, of  all  God's  creatures,  the  most 
solitary  being  that  ever  wandered  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  seeking  a  spot 
wherein  to  hide  and  die,  I  feel  happy 

Can  you  understand  this,  M.  d'Au- 

ban?" 

"Yes;  for  it  is  the  Christian's  se- 
cret." 

"  But  you  have  always  had  faith — 
you  cannot  perhaps  quite  conceive  the 
feelings  of  those  who  once  were  blind 
and  now  see.  You  don't  know  what  it 


is  to  have  lived  half  a  lifetime  in  dark- 
ness, and  then  to  feel  the  glorious  light 
breaking  in  upon  your  soul  and  flood- 
ing it  with  sunshine  I " 

D'Auban  was  too  much  moved  to 
speak  for  awhile,  and  then  said, 
"  Would  it  agitate  or  pain  you,  Prin- 
cess, to  relate  to  me  the  particulars 
of—" 

"Of  my  extraordinary  history — my 
unparalleled  escape  ?  No,  I  think  I  can 
go  through  it,  and  I  should  like  to  do 
so.  I  wish  you  to  know  all  that  has 
happened  to  me.  It  will  be  a  comfort 
to  us  hereafter  to  have  spoken  quite 
openly  to  each  other  before  we 
parted." 

It  was  in  the  following  words  that 
Madame  de  Moldau  told  her  story. 


CHAP TEE    VIII. 


MADAME    DE    MOLDAU'S    STORY. 

I  will  relate  all  my  years  in  the  bitterness  of  my  soul. 

EttekiaKs  Song. 

And  she  hath  wandered  long  and  far 
Beneath  the  light  of  son  and  star, 
Hath  roamed  in  trouble  and  in  grief, 
Driven  forward  like  a  withered  leaf, 
Tea,  like  a  ship  at  random  blown 
To  distant  places  and  unknown. 

Wordsworth, 


"  MY  childhood  went  by  like  a  pleas- 
ant dream.  The  ducal  palace  in 
which  I  was  born,  with  its  gay  parter- 
res, its  green  bowers,  and  the  undulat- 
ing hills  which  surround  it,  often  rises 
before  me  like  a  vision  of  fairy-land. 
My  sister  and  myself  were  brought  up 
like  birds  in  a  gilded  cage,  and  with 
about  as  much  knowledge  of  the  exter- 
nal world  as  the  doves  we  kept  to  play 
with  or  the  gold-fish  in  our  mimic 
lakes.  Our  governess  was  an  elderly 


lady  of  rank,  who  had  all  the  kindness, 
the  placidity,  and  the  romantic  senti- 
mentality of  the  Northern  German 
character.  We  were,  I  suppose,  sweet- 
tempered  children,  and  scarcely  a  rip- 
ple marred  the  smooth  surface  of  our 
even  days.  Nothing  but  gentleness 
was  shown  to  us.  Study  was  made 
interesting.  We  led  a  charmed  exist- 
ence, such  as  is  depicted  in  fairy  tales, 
and  seeing  nothing  as  it  really  is.  We 
thought  peasants  were  like  the  shep- 


84 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


herds  and  shepherdesses  made  of  Dres- 
den China,  and  that  the  poor  were  peo- 
ple who  lived  in  small  houses  covered 
with  roses  and  called  cottages.  As  to 
the  world  of  politics  and  fashion,  we 
formed  our  ideas  of  it  from  Mdlle.  de 
Scudery's  novels.  Nothing  vicious  or 
unrefined  was  suffered  to  approach  us. 
We  were  taught  music  and  morality, 
languages  and  universal  benevolence. 
Religion  was  exhibited  to  us  as  a  senti- 
ment well  fitted  to  impart  elevation  to 
the  mind,  and  to  give  a  relish  for  the 
beauties  of  nature.  Virtue,  we  were 
assured,  was  its  own  reward.  Oh !  M. 
d'Auban,  how  well  all  this  sounded  in 
the  morning  of  life,  in  an  atmosphere 
of  unruffled  tranquillity  and  youthful 
enjoyment,  in  those  secluded  bowers 
where  my  young  sister  and  myself 
wandered  hand  in  hand,  playing  in  the 
sunshine,  slumbering  in  the  shade,  and 
resting  our  heads  at  night  on  the  same 
pillow.  The  happiness  of  those  early 
years  looked  and  felt  so  like  virtue. 
And  as  we  grew  older,  the  love  of  poe- 
try and  art,  and  our  intense  affection 
for  each  other,  and  our  enthusiasm  for 
the  Fatherland  and  its  legends  and 
traditions,  filled  up  a  space  left  pur- 
posely vacant  in  our  hearts  and  minds. 
No  definite  faith  was  instilled  into  our 
souls.  We  were  instructed  in  the  phi- 
losophy which  looks  on  all  dogmas 
with  indifference.  It  was  only  on  the 
map  that  we  were  permitted  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  creeds  which  men 
profess.  We  were  to  be  educated  to 
respect  them  all,  and  to  believe  in 
none  till  the  day  when  diplomacy 
decided  our  fate,  and  our  consequent 
adherence  to  one  religion  or  another. 
Trained  in  indifference,  doomed  to 
hypocrisy!  None  of  those  who  sur- 
rounded us  held  nobler  views  or  a 
higher  language  than  this.  That  dear 
kind  old  friend,  who  died  the  other 
day,  you  must  have  noticed  yourself 
the  tone  of  his  mind  when  first  you 


knew  him.  He  was  our  chamberlain 
from  the  time  we  were  old  enough 
to  have  a  household  app6inted  for  us. 
Even  in  those  days  we  playfully  called 
him  father,  as  I  have  done  in  sad  and 
sober  earnest  and  with  good  reason 
since.  But  I  will  not  linger  any  longer 
over  the  remembrance  of  those  scenes 
and  of  that  time.  I  will  not  describe 
to  you  Wolfenbuttel,  the  miniature 
valley,  the  smooth  green  hills,  the 
silvery  river,  the  old  palace,  the  library 
where  we  used  to  see  learned  men 
assembling  from  all  parts  of  the 
world—" 

"  I  have  seen  it,"  said  d'Auban.  "  I 
have  seen  those  hills,  that  palace.  I 
saw  you  and  your  fair  sister,  the  very 
day  (so  I  was  told  at  the  time)  that 
you  were  about  to  part  with  her." 

"  Did  you  ?  It  was  the  day  after  a 
ball." 

"Yes,  that  very  ball  where  I  was 
permitted  to  dance  with  you." 

"  Ah !  is  it  not  strange  that  those 
who  are  destined  to  play  so  great  a 
part  in  one  another's  life  can  be  so 
unconsciously  breathing  the  same  air, 
gazing  on  the  same  scenes,  speaking 
careless  words  to  each  other !  But 
tell  me,  did  you  feel  sorry  for  me  then  ? 
Did  you  foresee  what  I  should  suffer  ? " 

"  I  remember  musing  on  the  fate 
which  awaited  you,  but  with  more 
of  wonder  than  pity.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  the  most  savage  of  men  must 
soften  towards  you,  and  I  felt  more 
inclined  to  compassionate  those  you 
were  about  to  leave  than  to  foresee 
suffering  in  a  destiny  which  promised 
to  be  brilliant." 

"  Well,  I  parted  with'  my  sister,  took 
a  last  farewell  of  the  happy  scenes  of 
my  childhood,  received  a  wreath  of 
flowers  at  the  hands  of  the  maidens  of 
Wolfenbuttel,  and  many  a  splendid  gift 
from  kings  and  from  princes.  I  left 
the  ducal  palace  and  the  fair  valley  in 
which  it  stands  with  a  sorrowful  but 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


85 


not  a  desponding  heart,  for  I  was  ful- 
filling, a  woman's  and  a  princess's  part. 
Forgetting  my  father's  house,  I  said  to 
myself,  going  forth  like  Rebekah  to 
meet  an  unknown  husband  in  a  strange 
land.  My  sister,  so  said  the  poets  of 
the  ducal  court,  was  to  wed  the  Aus- 
trian eagle ;  I  was  to  be  the  mate  of 
the  Imperial  bird  of  the  north.  *  Joy 
to  the  Czarevitch's  bride  1' the  sound 
rang  in  my  ears,  and  my  heart  beat 
with  more  of  hope  than  of  fear.  The 
title  of  the  son  of  the  Czar  pleased  my 
girlish  fancy,  and  I  had  a  romantic  ad- 
miration for  the  great  Emperor  whom 
the  philosophers  and  the  men  of  let- 
ters of  my  country  extolled  as  the 
greatest  hero  of  the  age.  It  was  to 
Torgau  that  my  father  took  me  to  meet 
Peter  the  Great  and  his  son.  I  have 
often  wondered  if  he  had  a  presenti- 
ment that  day  of  the  doom  of  his  child. 
I  stood  by  his  side  in  the  chamber 
which  had  been  fitted  up  for  the  first 
interview.  The  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  the  Czar  came  in.  I  knelt  at  his 
feet  and  besought  him  to  be  a  father 
to  me.  He  spoke  kindly  to  me.  I 
raised  my  eyes  to  his  face.  It  is  a 
handsome  one,  as  you  know,  but  I  was 
struck  with  the  dead  coldness  of  his 
eye,  and  the  fearful  twitch  which  some- 
times convulsed  his  features.  And  then 
he  presented  the  prince  to  me." 

Madame  de  Moldau  paused,  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands,  whilst  tears  fell  like 
rain  through  her  slender  fingers. 

"  It  is  too  much  for  you,"  exclaimed 
d'Auban,  "  too  painful,  too  agitating  to 
go  through  such  a  narrative — to  speak 
of  that  man  who  was — " 

"  Who  is  my  husband — the  father  of 
my  child — my  persecutor,  my  enemy, 
and  yet — Oh  I  sometimes,  since  I  have 
had  time  to  look  back  upon  the  past, 
since  in  profound  self-abasement  I  have 
sunk  at  our  Lord's  feet  and  felt  my 
own  need  of  mercy,  I  have  pitied  him, 
and  felt  that  others  will  have  to  answer 


br  much  of  his  guilt.  Yes,  that  great 
man,  his  father,  has  dealt  cruelly  with 
a  nature  that  was  not  altogether  bad. 
He  cut  down  the  wheat  with  the  tares 
in  a  heart  as  full  of  wild  passions  and 
as  fierce  as  his  own,  but  of  a  far  dif- 
ferent stamp.  It  is  impossible  to  imag- 
ine two  beings  brought  up  in  a  more 
different  manner  than  the  Czarevitch 
and  myself.  Darkness  and  gloom  had 
overshadowed  his  cradle ;  the  rancour 
which  was  fostered  in  his  soul  from 
the  earliest  dawn  of  reason  was  joined 
to  a  passionate  attachment  to  the  cus- 
toms, manners,  religion,  and  language 
of  the  Muscovite  nation.  Early  in  life 
he  had  felt  a  burning  resentment  at 
the  banishment  and  disgrace  of  his  un- 
happy mother,  the  Empress  Eudoxia. 
In  the  visits  he  obliged  me  to  pay  to 
*  Sister  Helen,'  the  pale  wild-looking 
recluse  of  the  monastic  prison  of  Isdal, 
I  saw  that  the  same  passions  which  in- 
fluenced him  were  eating  her  heart 
away  in  that  horrible  solitude;  and 
what  a  fatal  effect  they  had  upon  his 
character !  Yet  I  was  glad ;  yes,  it 
was  a  relief  to  see  that  he  loved  her, 
that  he  loved  any  one.  His  detesta- 
tion of  the  Empress  Catherine  was  as 
vehement  as  his  sense  of  his  mother's 
wrongs." 

"There  is  something  very  fearful," 
d'Auban  said,  "  in  a  child's  hatred.  It 
is  almost  always  founded  on  a  secret  or 
acknowledged  consciousness  of  injus- 
tice, on  the  feeling  that  some  great 
injury  has  been  done  to  itself  or  to 
another.  Nothing  destroys  so  effectu- 
ally youthfulness  of  heart." 

"  And  the  prince's  hatred  extended 
also  in  some  measure  to  his  father :  he 
looked  upon  him  as  an  oppressor  whose 
will  it  was  all  but  hopeless  to  with- 
stand, but  a  sort  of  infatuation  urged 
him  on  to  the  unequal  struggle.  There 
was  not  one  subject  on  which  the  son 
did  not  abhor  his  father's  policy.  He 
detested  foreign  manners  and  foreign 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


languages,  and,  above  all,  foreign  inno- 
vations. He  loathed  the  sight  of  the 
new  capital,  which  had  risen  up  in  a 
day,  and  taken  the  place  of  the  beauti- 
ful city  of  his  birth — the  Queen  of  the 
old  Muscovite  empire.  The  Emperor's 
assumption  of  supremacy  in  ecclesias- 
tical matters,  and  the  suppression  of 
the  patriarchate,  were  in  his  eyes  acts 
of  audacious  impiety.  His  attachment 
to  theological  studies  in  his  youth  was 
a  singular  trait  in  his  character.  He 
had  twice  written  out  the  whole  of  the 
Bible  in  his  own  hand,  and  was  by  no 
means  an  unlearned  man.  But  at  the 
time  of  our  marriage  he  was  surround- 
ed alternately  by  his  drunken  compan- 
ions and  by  the  clergy  of  the  Russian 
Church.  From  a  child  he  was  taught 
to  conspire,  and  urged  to  carry  on  a 
fruitless  contest  with  a  master  mind 
and  a  despotic  will  which  crushed  him 
and  raised  him  up  again  with  contemp- 
tuous ease.  He  was  always  lifting  up 
his  arm  against  the  giant  who  despised 
him.  Defeated,  but  not  subdued,  he 
maddened  in  the  conflict,  and  vented 
his  rage  on  those  within  his  reach. 
M.  d'Auban,  do  you  remember  the  In- 
dian legend  that  Therese  repeated  to  us 
on  the  eve  of  New  Year's  Day  ? " 

"  The  story  of  Hiawatha  ?  I  noticed 
at  the  time  that  some  parts  of  it  seemed 
to  strike  you  very  much." 

"  It  made  me  think  of  the  struggle  I 
am  speaking  of.  Those  stanzas  par- 
ticularly which  describe  how  Hiawatha 
fought  with  his  father,  the  ruler  of  the 
west  wind,  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  his 
mother,  the  lily  of  the  prairie,  the 
beautiful  Wenonah.  How  he  hurled  at 
the  giant  the  fragments  of  jutting 
rocks : 

For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was  ; 
But  the  ruler  of  the  west  wind 
Blew  the  fragments  backward  from  him 
With  the  breathing  of  his  nostrils, 
With  the  tempest  of  his  anger. 


Yes,  those  words  made  me  think  of  the 
Czarovitch's  struggle  against  his  iron- 
hearted  father,  who  never  loved  him, 
but  bore  with  him  ;  and  with  a  great 
patience,  in  which  there  was  not  one 
atom  of  feeling  or  of  kindness,  sought 
to  make  him  a  fit  successor  to  his 
throne. 

"  Now,  M.  d'Auban,  you  can  imagine 
with  what  feelings  that  rebellious  spir- 
it, that  resentful  son,  that  wild  and 
weak  young  man,  must  have  looked 
upon  the  bride  which  his  father  had 
chosen  for  him — the  German  bride, 
who  could  not  speak  one  word  of  the 
Russian  language,  and  who,  with  child- 
like imprudence,  showed  her  aversion 
to  many  of  the  customs  of  Russia,  some 
of  them  the  very  ones  which  Alexis 
would  almost  have  died  to  uphold; 
who  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the 
Czar ;  who  babbled,  God  forgive  her ! 
of  philosophy  and  free  thinking,  but 
loathed  the  sight  of  his  vices  and 
excesses.  In  those  first  days  of  mar- 
riage, of  complete  ignorance  of  all  that 
surrounded  me,  how  I  rushed,  like  a 
fool,  where  angels,  as  the  English  poet 
said,  would  have  feared  to  tread !  How 
I  unconsciously  sported  with  the  ele- 
ments of  future  misery,  and  thought 
I  could  tame,  by  playful  looks  and 
words,  the  fierce  nature  of  my  hus- 
band ! 

"It  was  a  few  days  after  we  had 
arrived  at  the  palace  at  St.  Petersburg, 
that  I  received  my  first  lesson  in  the 
Greek  religion;  and  in  the  evening, 
whilst  conversing  with  General  Aprax- 
in,  I  laughed  at  the  pains  which  my 
instructor  had  taken  to  explain  to  me 
that  the  Czar  could  not  be  Antichrist, 
as  the  number  666  was  not  to  be  found 
in  his  name.  I  saw  my  husband's  eyes 
fixed  upon  me  with  a  look  of  hatred 
which  curdled  the  blood  in  my  veins. 
Another  time  I  was  listening  with  a 
smile  to  the  ridiculous  account  which 
one  of  the  Czar's  favourite  French  offi- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


cers  was  giving  of  the  discipline  to 
which  the  Russian  peasants  subjected 
their  wives,  and  of  the  pride  which  a 
true  Muscovite  woman  took  in  the 
chastisements  inflicted  by  her  lord  and 
master.  The  word  u Barbarians"  es- 
caped my  lips.  The  Czarovitch  started 
up  in  a  fury,  and  dealing  me  a  heavy 
blow,  exclaimed — "  This  will  teach 
you,  madame,  to  turn  into  ridicule  the 
ancient  customs  of  this  nation." 

"  I  turned  away  from  him  with  a  cry 
of  terror,  and  from  that  day  I  never  was 
free  from  fear  in  his  presence.  "When 
the  Czar  was  within  reach  I  felt  sure  of 
his  protection,  but  he  was  seldom  at 
St.  Petersburg  or  at  Moscow  for  any 
length  of  time,  and  I  was  left  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  my  husband. 

"  Oh  what  that  life  was;  what  that 
life  became — every  part  of  it,  every 
moment  of  it!  I  had  not  one  human 
being  about  me  whom  I  could  trust, 
except  my  faithful  M.  de  Sasse — M.  de 
Chambelle,  as  we  called  him  here — who 
alone  had  been  suffered  to  accompany 
me  to  Russia.  He  wras  of  Russian  par- 
entage himself,  and  obtained  permission 
to  enter  my  household.  The  Countess 
of  Konigsmark  was  very  kind  to  me, 
and  there  was  one  other  person  in  that 
great  empire  who  also  felt  for  the  Czaro- 
vitch's  wife;  one  whom  many  speak 
against ;  one  whose  life  has  been  as  ex- 
traordinary, though  a  very  different 
one  from  mine;  one  who  may  have 
been  guilty  towards  others,  God  only 
knows,  but  to  me  a  friend  to  more  than 
royal  friendship  true.  Never,  as  long 
as  life  and  memory  last,  can  I  forget 
the  kindness  of  the  Empress  Catherine. 

"  The  first  day  I  saw  her — it  was  just 
after  the  Czar  had  recognized  her  as 
his  wife — my  heart  was  very  sore.  Dis- 
enchantment, that  sickness  of  the  soul — 
a  still  more  hopeless  one  than  that  of 
hope  deferred — had  come  over  me.  No 
one  had  said  a  word  of  tenderness  to 
me  since  I  had  left  my  home.  The 


Countess  of  Konigsmark  was  not  yet  in 
Russia.  I  had  no  feeling  for  or  against 
the  new  empress.  My  husband  detested 
her ;  but  I  had  espoused  none  of  liis 
hatreds,  and  was  more  inclined  towards 
those  whom  his  friends  opposed  than 
those  whom  they  favoured.  When  I 
saw  her  handsome  face  beaming  upon 
me  with  the  sunshiny  look  which,  it  is 
said,  made  her  fortune,  it  seemed  as  if 
a  ray  of  real  sunshine  had,  for  a  moment, 
shone  upon  me.  I  suppose  I  must  have 
looked  very  miserable.  She  had  not 
yet  learnt  the  cold  reserve  which  royalty 
enforces.  The  womanly  heart  of  the 
Lithuanian  peasant  warmed  towards 
the  desolate  princess;  she  clasped  me 
to  her  breast,  and  I  felt  hot  tears  falling 
on  my  brow.  She  doubtless  guessed 
what  I  had  already  suffered,  and  the 
doom  that  was  reserved  to  me ;  for  she 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  wedded  to  a 
Romanoff — to  live  in  fear  and  trembling 
with  a  hand  on  the  lion's  mane.  She 
knew  how  fierce  a  thing  was  even  the 
love  of  one  of  that  race:  well  might 
she  divine  what  their  hatred  must  be. 
Our  meetings  were  not  frequent — our 
interviews  short.  The  Czar,  as  you 
know,  was  ever  travelling  in  and  beyond 
his  vast  empire,  and  she  was  ever  by 
his  side.  It  was  his  desire,  at  that  time, 
that  the  Czarovitch  should  try  his  hand 
at  governing  during  those  absences. 
He  took  care,  however,  to  restrain  his 
power,  and  to  have  a  close  watch  kept 
over  his  actions.  He  compelled  me,  in 
spite  of  the  ever-increasing  bad  treat- 
ment of  the  prince,  to  remain  with  him ; 
for  he  knew  that  all  my  ideas  coincided 
with  his  own,  and  were  opposed  to 
those  of  my  husband.  He  hoped  I 
should  gain  an  influence  over  him.  It 
was  a  vain  hope.  . 

"  I  will  not  dwell  on  one  circum^ance 
of  my  history — which,  as  you  have 
resided  in  Russia,  you  probably  are 
acquainted  with.  You  doubtless  heard 
it  said,  that  Charlotte  of  Brunswick 


88 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


had  a  rival  in  the  person  of  a  Russian 
slave." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  d'Auban,  with 
emotion. 

"  It  was  no  secret,"  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau  went  on  to  say.  "  The  prince  used, 
in  my  presence,  to  complain  that  the 
Czar  had  married  a  peasant,  and  that  he 
had  been  compelled  to  wed  a  princess. 

"Now  you  can  understand  what  a 
fatal  effect  my  position  had  upon  me, 
as  regarded  religion.  How  I  hated  the 
creed  which  it  had  been  agreed  upon 
as  a  condition  of  my  marriage  that  I 
should  profess ;  which  they  wished  to 
teach  me,  as  if  it  had  been  a  language 
and  a  science.  A  Protestant  may  be  a 
sceptic,  and  yet  scarcely  conscious  of 
hypocrisy  in  calling  himself  a  Christian ; 
but  the  Greek  religion  enforces  observ- 
ances which  are  a  mockery  if  practiced 
without  faith  in  them.  I  would  not 
receive  the  sacraments  of  the  Greek 
Church.  The  Czar  did  not  compel  me 
to  it ;  but  many  a  fearful  scene  I  had 
with  my  husband  on  that  account. 
When,  on  state  occasions,  I  went  to 
church  with  him,  my  presence  only  ir- 
ritated his  fanaticism.  His  religion 
consisted  in  a  kind  of  gloomy,  intense 
devotion  to  a  national  form  of  worship, 
identified  with  his  prejudices,  but  with- 
out any  influence  on  his  heart  or  life. 
My  own  early  impressions  were  too 
vague,  too  indefinite,  to  offer  any  stand- 
ing-ground between  the  tenets  which 
were  forced  upon  me  and  the  scepticism 
in  which  I  took  refuge.  Can  you  won- 
der that  I  became  almost  an  infidel  ? " 

"  It  would  have  been  strange  had  it 
been  otherwise,"  d'Auban  answered. 
"  It  is  a  great  mercy  that  the  principle 
of  faith  was  not  utterly  destroyed  in 
your  soul.  But  ^t  is,  thank  God,  only 
wilful  resistance  to  truth  which  hope- 
lessly hardens  the  heart.  You  were 
guiltless  of  that." 

"Every  thing  that  now  appears  to 
me  in  another  light,  under  another 


aspect,  was  then  distorted,  as  if  to 
delude  me.  The  prince  used  to  take 
me  in  secret  to  the  monastery  of  Isdal 
to  see  his  mother  and  his  aunt,  the 
Princess  Sophia — the  so-called  nuns, 
the  unhappy  recluses  whose  bodies 
were  confined  in  this  cloistered  prison, 
whose  hearts  and  minds  were  incessant- 
ly bent  on  ambitious  projects,  on  in- 
trigue and  on  revenge.  Sister  Helen's 
fierce  denunciations  of  the  Czar  and  the 
Empress  Catherine  still  ring  in  my 
ears.  When  I  am  ill  and  weak,  her 
face,  as  I  used  to  see  it,  half  concealed 
by  a  dark  cowl,  haunts  me  like  a  spec- 
tre. And  the  Czar's  sister — her  haughty 
silence — her  commanding  form — her 
eye  bright  and  cold  as  a  turquoise, 
watching  the  foreigner  with  a  keenness 
which  froze  the  blood  in  my  veins; 
how  I  trembled  when  I  encountered  its 
gaze !  how  I  shuddered  when  Sister 
Helen  called  me,  daughter ! 

"I  am  afraid  of  wearying  you,  M. 
d'Auban,  with  the  detail  of  my  suffer- 
ings, but  I  want  you  to  know  what  my 
life  has  been—" 

"I  would  not  lose  one  word,  one 
single  word,  of  this  mournful  story.  It 
tells  upon  me  more  deeply  than  you 
think.  Go  on.  It  will  be  better  for 
you  to  have  told,  and  for  me  to  have 
heard,  that  such  things  have  happened 
in  God's  world.  May  He  forgive  those 
who  have  thus  wrought  with  you, 
my-" 

He  stopped.  The  words  "beloved 
one,"  were  on  his  lips,  but  were  checked 
in  time.  It  was  a  hard  task  for  that 
man  to  hear  her  tale  of  sorrow,  and 
not  pour  forth  in  burning  words  the 
feelings  of  his  heart. 

She  continued:  "  Every  thing  was  a 
trial  to  me  during  those  dreadful  years. 
The  barbarous  magnificence  of  the 
court,  which  always  in  the  absence, 
and  sometimes  in  the  presence,  of  the 
Czar  was  mixed  up  with  drunken 
orgies  and  savage  revelries,  which 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


89 


sometimes,  out  of  caprice,  the  prince 
forced  me  to  witness.  At  other  times 
I  was  left  in  absolute  neglect,  and  even 
penury. 

"You  have  sometimes  wondered  at 
my  patient  endurance  for  a  few  weeks 
of  the  horrors,  as  you  termed  them,  of 
Simon's  barge,  and  the  hut  where  we 
were  first  sheltered  under  these  sunny 
skies.  You  did  not  know  that  I  had 
once  almost  starved  in  a  cold  northern 
palace,  well-nigh  perished  from  neglect. 

"At  a  moment's  notice,  a  summons 
would  come  to  accompany  the  prince 
to  meet  his  father  at  some  distant  part 
of  the  empire;  five  or  six  hundred 
leagues  were  to  be  traversed,  day  and 
night,  with  scarcely  any  interval  of 
repose.  He  detested  those  forced 
marches,  and  used  sometimes  to  feign 
illness  in  order  to  avoid  them.  When 
we  joined  the  court  I  was  secure  for 
awhile  from  ill-treatment,  for  the  Czar 
was  always  kind,  the  Empress  aflfe^- 
tionate  to  me ;  but  then  I  used  to  suffer 
in  another  away.  You  will  understand 
it:  something  you  said  to  me  about 
the  Czar  makes  me  sure  you  will.  Since 
my  girlish  days  I  had  looked  upon  him 
with  admiration — his  prowess,  his 
intellect,  his  energy,  the  immense 
works  he  had  achieved,  his  gigantic 
creations,  had  stimulated  all  the  enthu- 
siasm of  my  nature.  Perhaps  my  hus- 
band would  not  have  hated  me  so 
bitterly  if  I  had  not  exalted  his  father's 
name,  his  schemes,  and  his  innovations 
with  an  enthusiasm,  and  in  a  way, 
which  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  him. 
When  I  was  suffering  the  deepest 
humiliations,  when  insulted  and  ill- 
used  by  the  Czarevitch,  I  used  to  glory 
that  I  was  the  Czar's  daughter — that 
my  child  would  be  his  grandson.  But 
shadows  gradually  darkened  these  vis- 
ions. A  cold  chill  was  thrown  over  my 
youthful  anticipations.  This  did  not 
arise  from  the  stories  my  husband  and 
his  friends  related  against  the  Emperor. 


I  disbelieved  them.  The  slaughter  of 
thousands  of  men — the  extermination 
of  the  Strelitz— I  recked  not  of.  The 
majesty  of  the  crown  had  to  be  vindi- 
cated. The  young  Czar,  in  the  hour 
of  his  might  and  of  his  triumph,  bore 
the  aspect  of  an  avenging  divinity  in 
my  blinded  vision,  and  the  glories  of  a 
nation  rose  out  of  the  stern  retributive 
justice  of  these  acts. 

"  But  when  in  his  palace,  for  the  first 
time,  I  saw  him  give  way  to  passion, 
not  as  a  sovereign,  but  as  a  savage  (you 
used  that  word  once ;  I  fear  it  is  the 
true  one);  when  I  saw  him,  with  my 
own  eyes,  strike  his  courtiers;  when 
with  trembling  horror  I  heard  of  his 
cutting  off  the  head  of  a  criminal  with 
his  own  hand,  and  another  time  of  his 
administering  the  knout  himself  to  a 
slave — then  the  veil  fell  from  my  eyes 
— then  the  dream  was  over.  The  dis- 
gusting buffooneries  he  delighted  in 
were  also  a  torment  to  me.  The  cyni- 
cal derisive  pantomimes  enacted  in  his 
presence,  ia  which  even  the  sacred 
ceremony  of  marriage  was  profaned 
and  ridiculed;  the  priesthood,  de- 
graded though  they  might  be,  turned 
into  ridicule — it  was  all  so  revolting, 
so  debasing.  No  doubt  he  was  great 
in  what  he  conceived  and  in  what  he 
executed.  No  doubt  he  created  an 
empire  in  a  few  years,  and  raised  up 
cities  and  fleets  even  as  other  men  put 
up  a  tent  or  launch  a  ship.  But  M. 
d'Auban,  do  you  believe  that  he  has 
founded  that  empire  on  a  lasting 
foundation — do  you  think  that  the 
examples  he  gave  will  bequeath  to  the 
Russian  nation  those  principles  of 
morality  which  are  the  strength  of  a 
people  ? " 

"I  place  no  reliance,"  answered 
d'Auban,  "in  reforms  brought  about 
by  despotic  power,  or  in  a  civilization 
which  improves  the  intellect  and 
softens  the  manners  without  amending 
the  heart  and  converting  the  soul.  Did 


90 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


you  ever  venture  to  express  these  ideas 
to  the  Czar  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,  in  a  general  way,  but 
you  must  remember,  that  whatever 
may  have  been  right  in  my  impressions 
at  that  time,  was  the  result  of  a  con- 
scientious instinct,  not  of  any  definite 
principles.  I  was  afraid  of  showing 
him  how  much  I  disliked  the  bad  taste 
of  his  favourite  amusements.  Once 
when  the  Czar  had  given  way  before 
me  to  a  degrading  transport  of  passion, 
he  said  to  me  afterwards,  '  Ah,  it  is 
easier  to  reform  an  empire  than  to  re- 
form oneself.'  There  was  something 
grand  in  this  acknowledgment  from 
one  with  whom  no  one  on  earth  would 
have  dared  to  find  fault." 

"Amendment  would  have  been  grand- 
er. But  the  fact  is,  he  had  no  wish 
to  amend.  He  has  no  faith,  no  princi- 
ples. Ambition  is  his  ruling  passion, 
and  what  in  him  looks  like  virtue  is 
the  far-sighted  policy  of  a  wise  legisla- 
tor. What  unmitigated  suffering  the 
atmosphere  of  that  court  must  have 
been  to  a  nature  like  yours  !  The  nat- 
ural goodness  of  your  heart,  as  well  as 
your  refined  tastes,  incessantly  offended 
by  the  iniquities  which  compassed  you 
about  on  every  side,  and  at  that  time 
no  firm  footing  on  which  to  take  your 
own  stand  in  the  midst  of  all  that  cor- 
ruption." 

"  Yes,  even  those  whom  I  had  a  bet- 
ter opinion  of,  and  who  took  an  inter- 
est in  me,  men  imbued  with  the  philo- 
sophical ideas  which  are  gaining  ground 
so  fast  in  France  and  in  Germany,  but 
who  scorned  the  grosser  vices  and 
coarse  manners  of  my  husband's  com- 
panions, had  nothing  better  to  recom- 
mend to  me,  in  order  to  strengthen  my 
mind  and  guard  me  against  tempta- 
tion, than  reading  Plutarch's  Lives  and 
Montesquieu's  works.  General  Apraxin, 
Count  Gagarin,  and  Mentzchikoff,  the 
Emperor's  favourite,  were  of  the  num- 
ber of  these  friends  who  ridiculed  the 


longbeards,  as  they  called  the  clergy, 
and  applauded  my  aversion  to  the  cere- 
monies of  the  national  religion.  They 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  dangers  which 
surrounded  me.  One  of  them  informed 
me  that  every  lady  in  my  household 
was  a  spy — some  in  the  Emperor's  and 
some  in  my  husband's  interest.  An- 
other warned  me  never  to  speak  in  a 
low  voice  to  any  of  my  attendants,  as 
I  should  be  suspected  of  conspiring. 
And  one  day  the  Countess  of  Konigs- 
mark  (this  was  about  two  years  after 
my  marriage)  brought  me  secretly  a 
box  containing  a  powerful  antidote 
against  poison,  with  the  assurance  that 
I  might  have  occasion  to  use  it;  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  that  the 
Czarovitch  intended  to  make  away 
with  me,  in  order  to  marry  the  slave 
Afrosina.  Then  fear  of  another  sort 
became  my  daily  lot;  uneasiness  by 
day  and  terror  by  night.  If  ever  the 
sljpry  of  Damocles  was  realized  in  a 
living  being's  existence,  it  was  in  mine. 
The  torment  of  that  continual  fear  be- 
came almost  unbearable,  and  the  home- 
sickness preyed  upon  my  spirits  with 
unremitting  intensity.  It  was  at  once 
the  prisoner's  and  the  exile's  yearning 
— the  burthen  of  royalty  and  that  of 
poverty  also.  I  was  penniless  amidst 
splendour;  in  debt,  and  deprived,  at 
times,  of  the  most  common  comforts  of 
life.  On  state  occasions  decked  out 
with  eastern  magnificence,  at  home  in 
miserable  penury.  Often  I  was  obliged 
to  submit  to  arrangements  which  were 
intolerable  to  a  person  of  even  ordinary 
refinement.  In  "the  temporary  residen- 
ces which  we  occupied  during  the  pro- 
gresses of  the  court,  my  apartment  was 
crowded  with  female  slaves,  both  by 
day  and  by  night;  and  there  was 
more  vermin  in  some  of  the  Muscovite 
palaces  than  in  the  wigwams  of  our 
poor  Indians. 

"  One  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  fate 
in  those  days  was  that  of  being,  in  one 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


91 


sense,  never  alone,  and  continually  so  in 
another.  If  amongst  my  attendants  I 
seemed  to  distinguish  one  from  the  rest 
— if  any  affection  seemed  to  spring  up 
tween  one  of  my  ladies  and  myself,  she 
was  at  once  dismissed  from  my  sight, 
exiled  to  Siberia,  or  compelled,  perhaps, 
to  marry  some  person  of  obscure  sta- 
tion." 

"An  equally  dreadful  fate  in  your 
eyes,  princess,"  said  d'Auban,  in  a  voice 
in  which  there  was  a  slight  shade  of 
wounded  feeling.  Madame  de  Moldau 
did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"The  loss  was  the  same  to  me  in 
both  cases,"  she  said.  "  The  severity 
of  the  trial  to  them  must  have  depend- 
ed on  the  peculiarities  of  their  own 
character,  or  the  disposition  of  the  per- 
son they  were  forced  to  wed.  I  envied 
them  all,  I  believe — the  exiles  to  Sibe- 
ria most.  I  would  have  gone  any- 
where, done  any  thing  to  fly  away  and 
be  at  rest;  and  there  was  no  rest — 
think  of  that  1  no  rest  to  body,  heart, 
or  mind !  One  while  the  Czarevitch 
would  bring  his  friends  into  my  room, 
and  hold  his  drunken  revels  there, 
playing  at  a  game  where  the  penalty 
consisted  in  swallowing  large  bowls  of 
brandy  at  one  draught.  He  used 
roughly  to  compel  me  to  join  in  these 
sports,  and  brutally  resented  my  ill- 
concealed  disgust.  Another  while  he 
assembled  some  of  the  Greek  priests  of 
the  old  school,  and  held  with  them 
long  theological  discussions  in  my 
presence.  If  I  looked  weary  ancl  dis- 
tracted he  called  me  a  German  infidel, 
and  cursed  the  day  he  had  married  me. 
Now  you  see  why  I  shuddered  when 
you  first  spoke  to  me  of  religion.  It 
was  as  if  the  spectre  of  past  suifering 
had  suddenly  risen  up  before  me,  and 
touched  me  with  its  cold  hand.  One 
more  word  before  I  arrive  at  the  closing 
scene  of  these  long  years  of  anguish. 
I  have  been  a  mother,  but  I  have  not 
known  a  mother's  joy.  I  went  through 


the  trying  hour  of  a  woman's  life,  with- 
out one  word  of  affection  or  of  tender- 
ness to  soothe  or  to  support  me.  In  a 
cold  desolate  apartment  in  the  winter 
palace,  more  like  a  hall  than  a  cham- 
ber, my  son  was  born.  The  Czar  and 
the  Empress  were  hundreds  of  leagues 
away.  There  was  a  ceremonial  to  be 
observed  which  was  as  the  laws  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians.  No  particle  of  it 
was  to  be  infringed,  but  the  actors  in 
it  forgot  or  refused  to  come  and  per- 
form their  parts;  and  no  peasant,  no 
slave,  no  criminal,  was  ever  left  in  such 
helpless  abandonment  as  the  Czaro- 
vitch's  wife.  They  carried  away  my 
infant.  They  kept  him  out  of  my 
sight.  They  left  me  alone  shivering, 
shuddering,  pining  in  solitude,  conjur- 
ing up  visions  of  terror  during  the  long 
interminable  nights,  and  nervous  fan- 
cies without  end.  Hating  to  live,  fear- 
ing to  die,  trembling  at  every  sound, 
weary,  weary  unto  death,  I  lay  there 
thinking  of  my  child  in  the  hands  of 
strangers,  deeming  that  the  poison  I 
had  been  threatened  with  might  be 
even  then  destined  for  him,  and  the 
while  cannons  were  firing,  and  bells 
ringing,  and  men  carousing  for  joy 
that  an  heir  was  born  to  the  house  of 
Romanoff".  Forty  days  elapsed  and  I 
was  at  last  permitted  to  see  my  son. 
The  Czar  had  returned,  and  the  Em- 
press Catherine  brought  him  in  her 
arms  to  my  bed-side.  ...  I  looked 
at  the  little  face  a  long  time.  She 
was  very  patient  with  me  (the  Em- 
press), she  did  not  try  to  stop  my 
weeping.  She  laid  the  baby  one  mo- 
ment on  my  bosom,  but  it  was  not  to 
stay  with  its  mother.  The  Czar  would 
not  allow  his  son  the  possession  of  the 
heir  to  the  throne.  I  was  allowed  to 
see  him  sometimes,  not  often.  That 
same  day  I  was  churched  in  my  bed- 
chamber, in  the  presence  of  the  Em- 
peror and  the  Empress.  The  Patri- 
arch performed  the  ceremony.  I 


92 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


went  through  it  with  a  heart  of 
stone.  There  was  no  thanksgiving  on 
my  lips,  and  no  gratitude  in  my  heart. 
I  felt  as  if  I  was  an  atheist,  and  wished 
myself  dead." 

"Are  you  very  tired?"  anxiously 
asked  d'Auban,  frightened  at  Madame 
de  Moldau's  paleness,  as  she  leant  back 
in  her  chair,  and  closed  her  eyes  for  a 
moment. 

"  No  ;  I  was  thinking  of  the  visits  I 
used  to  pay  to  my  child  at  stated  times 
only.  How  I  used  to  stand  by  the 
cradle,  covered  with  ermine,  gazing  on 
my  sleeping  baby,  and  how  when  he 
awoke  he  turned  away  crying  at  the 
sight  of  a  stranger — of  his  mother. 
And  on  my  return  to  my  detested 
home,  what  wild  dreams  I  had  of  es- 
cape, of  freedom  1  "What  vain  schemes 
would  flit  at  those  times  across  my 
fevered  brain  of  a  flight  to  my  own 
land  with  my  infant  in  my  arms,  of 
hiding  in  some  lone  wood,  amidst  the 
green  hills  of  my  native  land,  where 
for  one  hour  I  might  sit  With  my  child 
upon  my  knees,  gazing  into  his  eyes. 
I  have  heard  you  pity  the  slave  whose 
child  is  sold  from  her  bosom.  Alas ! 
I  was  almost  as  much  deprived  of  mine 
as  the  poor  negress  in  the  slave  market 
of  New  Orleans.  And  I  dream  some- 
times even  now  of  soft  lips  against  my 
cheek,  and  little  hands  about  my  neck, 
which  I  never  felt,  which  I  shall  never 
feel — Not  even  as  a  stranger  shall  I 
ever  look  again  on — " 

"The  Czarevitch's  son,"  said  d'Au- 
ban, with  a  strong  rising  in  his  heart. 
It  was  almost  more  than  he  could  en- 
dure to  hearken  to  this  story  in  silence. 
He  was  more  deeply  moved  than  she 
could  know.  What  it  was  a  relief  to 
her  to  tell,  it  was  agony  to  him  to  hear. 
There  are  records  of  human  iniquity 
and  human  suffering  which  fill  the 
soul  with  a  burning  indignation,  which 
wring  it  with  an  intolerable  pity,  which 
make  us  bless  God  that  we  have  never 


been  tempted  beyond  what  we  could 
bear ;  that  we  have  never  been,  like  poor 
Charlotte  Corday,  for  instance,  mad- 
dened into  one  of  those  crimes  which 
almost  look  like  virtue. 

D'Auban  was  thankful  that  day  that 
the  wide  Atlantic  rolled  between  him 
and  the  royal  miscreant  who  had  done 
such  deeds  of  shame. 

"A  few  more  words,  and  then  you 
will  have  heard  all,"  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau  said,  "all  that  I  can  tell  of  the 
closing  scene  of  that  long  agony  of 
fear  and  suffering.  I  was  continually 
warned  of  my  danger:  continually 
received  messages  to  put  me  on  my 
guard  against  eating  certain  food,  or 
speaking  alone  to  some  particular  per- 
son. The  Czarevitch  himself  had  often 
uttered  dark  threats,  in  which  I  clearly 
perceived  the  doom  I  had  to  expect  at 
his  hands.  His  hatred  of  me  seemed 
to  grow  every  day  more  intense.  At 
last  I  discovered  that  a  conspiracy 
against  his  father  was  on  foot.  Evi- 
dence of  it  fell  in  my  hands.  His 
mother,  his  sister,  and  his  friends,  as 
well  as  a  large  number  of  the  Greek 
clergy,  were  engaged  in  it.  I  was 
thrown  into  strange  perplexities. 
Whatever  kindness  I  had  received  in 
Russia  was  from  the  Czar  and  his  con- 
sort, and  my  soul  revolted  at  the  idea 
of  being  implicated  in  my  husband's 
unnatural  conduct. 

"  One  day  I  took  courage.  We  were 
alone  together,  which  was  not  often 
the  case.  I  told  him  of  my  suspicions, 
my  more  than  suspicions  of  the  plot  he 
was  engaged  in.  Oh  !  the  look  of  his 
face  at  that  moment !  I  dare  not  fix 
my  thoughts  on  it.  I  remember  every 
word  he  said,  'that  I  had  been  his 
evil  genius ;  that  instead  of  marrying  a 
woman  he  loved,  he  had  been  made  to 
wed-a  pale  spectre  who  had  haunted 
him  as  the  White  Lady  who  foreshad- 
ows death  in  royal  houses.  That  I 
hated  his  mother,  and  despised  his 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


93 


church,  but  now  the  crisis  was  come. 
The  day  of  doom  at  hand.  The  desti- 
nies of  Russia  were  at  stake.  Swear,' 
he  said,  *  Swear  by  God,  that  is,  if  in- 
deed you  believe  there  is  a  God — swear 
that  you  will  be  silent  as  the  grave  re- 
garding the  glorious  delivery  which  is 
at  hand.  Do  you  value  your  life  ? '  he 
said  savagely,  as  I  turned  away  from 
him  without  replying.  '  Do  you  value 
your  life  ? '  he  repeated,  his  eyes  glow- 
ing with  an  expression  of  mingled 
hatred  and  fear. 

"'What  has  my  life  been  that  I 
should  value  it?'  I  cried,  the  strong 
sense  of  accumulated  wrongs  finding 
vent  at  last.  '  What  has  my  life  been 
but  a  living  death  since  I  set  foot  in 
this  detested  land,  since  I  became  the 
bride  of  a  savage.  Give  me  back  my 
own  country,  give  me  back  my  youth — ' 

" '  Your  youth,'  he  cried,  '  your  coun- 
try. Cursed  be  the  day  when  you 
came  from  it,  and  stood  between  me 
and  the  true  wife  of  my  heart,  and 
threw  the  cold  shade  of  your  sneers 
and  your  unbelief  over  the  faith  of 
holy  Russia.  But  by  that  faith  I  swear 
you  shall  come  this  very  day  to  my 
mother's  cell  and  hear  from  her  lips 
the  duty  of  a  wife.'  God  forgive  me ! 
I  was  stung  to  the  heart ;  I  thought  of 
what  that  woman  had  been,  and  of  my 
patience  and  truth,  and  I  murmured, 
'Will  she  teach  it  me.'  My  eyes 
doubtless  spoke  the  sarcasm  my  lips 
dared  not  utter.  He  felled  me  to  the 
ground.  I  remember  the  agony  of  the 
blow,  I  remember  the  look  of  his  face, 
I  remember  my  own  wild  cry,  and  then 
nothing  more ;  nothing  for  many  nights 
and  many  days. 

"  When  I  recovered  my  senses  I  was, 
or  fancied  I  was,  alone.  Lying  on  a 
small  bed  in  a  dark,  low  room,  I  saw 
nothing  but  stained  whitewashed  walls, 
and  a  small  table  on  which  were  some 
bottles,  and  two  or  three  common 
chairs.  Gradually  I  called  to  mind, 


with  that  feeble  groping  sense  of 
awakening  memory,  who  I  was,  and 
then  with  a  sort  of  bewildered  astonish- 
ment wondered  where  I  was.  I  had 
spent  days  of  misery  amidst  splendour 
and  discomfort,  but  so  poor  a  chamber 
as  this  I  had  never  even  looked  upon. 
With  difficulty,  and  feeling  faint  and 
giddy,  I  raised  my  heavy  head  from 
the  pillow,  and  saw  M.  de  Sasse,  sit- 
ting near  the  stove  warming  his  hands, 
and  looking  very  ill.  'M.  de,  Sasse,' 
I  whispered.  He  started,  and  hurried 
to  my  side.  'Where  am  I?  What 
has  happened  to  me  ? ' 

"'You  are  dead,1  he  emphatically 
whispered;  'that  is,  everybody,  and 
the  monster  who  killed  you,  thinks 
you  are  dead.'  Who  killed  me  ?  What 
monster  ?  Ah  !  it  all  came  back  upon 
me,  and  I  gave  a  fearful  scream. 
'  Hush,  hush !  for  heaven's  sake ! '  im- 
plored M.  de  Sasse.  'Nobody  must 
know  you  are  alive.' 

"  I  pressed  my  hand  on  my  forehead, 
for  my  thoughts  were  beginning  again 
to  wander.  '  Is  there  anybody  near 
me  but  you  ? '  I  said,  faintly. 

" '  The  Countess  of  Konigsmark  will 
be  here  presently.  She  will  tell  you 
all  that  has  happened.  Try  to  sleep  a 
little  again.'  I  closed  my  eyes,  but  I 
could  not  rest.  '  Is  this  the  world  to 
come  ? '  I  said.  '  It  is  like  a  horrid 
dream  without  a  beginning  or  an  end. 
It  is  very  dark.  Is  it  night  or  day? 
Is  this  life  or  death  ? '  Then  a  nervous 
agitation  seized  me,  I  began  to  tremble 
and  to  weep.  The  poor  old  man  bent 
over  me  imploring  me  to  be  silent. 
My  sobs  became  loud  and  convulsive, 
and  his  face  grew  wild  with  apprehen- 
sion. He  laid  a  pillow  on  my  face, 
and  I  cried  out,  '  Will  you,  too,  murder 
me  ? '  I  shall  never  forget  his  groan  as 
he  dashed  the  pillow  to  the  ground, 
and  tore  his  gray  hair.  Poor,  faithful 
old  man,  it  was  the  sight  of  his  grief 
which  quieted  me.  I  gave  him  my 


94 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


hand  and  fell  asleep,  I  believe.  The 
next  time  I  woke,  the  Countess  de 
Konigsinark  was  kneeling  by  the  bed- 
side ;  when  I  opened  my  eyes  they  met 
hers.  I  had  known  her  from  my  ear- 
liest childhood.  Her  son,  Comte  Mau- 
rice de  Saxe,  had  been  my  playfellow 
in  former  days.  She  was  one  of  my  few 
friends  since  niy  marriage.  Whenever 
she  came  to  the  court  of  Russia,  her 
society  was  a  consolation  to  me.  Dur- 
ing those  years  of  misery  she  was  the 
only  person  to  whom  I  opened  my  heart. 
What  a  relief  it  was  to  see  her  that 
day !  I  stretched  out  my  arms,  and 
she  folded  me  to  her  breast. 

" '  I  like  this  little  dark  room,  now 
that  you  are  here,'  I  whispered.  'I 
do  not  want  to  go  away,  if  you  will 
stay  a  little  with  me.  And  you,  too,' 
I  added,  turning  to  the  old  man,  who 
was  gazing  wistfully  at  me  from  his 
seat  near  the  stove.  'Nobody  cares 
for  me  in  the  whole  world,  but  you 
two.' 

"'My  darling  princess,'  said  the 
countess,  '  do  you  care  to  live  ? ' 

"I  started  up  in  wild  affright,  a 
dreadful  idea  had  passed  through  my 
mind.  I  was  perhaps  a  prisoner  con- 
demned to  death.  'What  have  I 
done  ?  Am  I  to  die  ? '  I  cried,  '  Is  the 
Czar  dead  ? ' 

"The  tears  fell  fast  from  the  coun- 
tess's eyes.  She  shook  her  head :  '  No, 
but  he  is  far  away,  my  princess,  and  the 
wretch  who  all  but  killed  you,  and  be- 
lieves that  he  did  so,  would  not  have 
suffered  you  to  live  if  he  had  known 
that  you  had  escaped  from  the  effects 
of  his  ferocity.  I  had  the  absolute 
certainty  of  this.  His  measures  were 
taken,  and  I  saw  but  one  way  of  saving 
you.  We  sent  him  word  that  you  were 
dead,  and  spread  abroad  the  news  of 
your  decease.  A  mock  funeral  took 
place,  and  the  court  followed  to  the 
grave  what  they  supposed  to  be  your 
mortal  remains.' 


" '  It  is  very  dreadful,'  I  said,  shud- 
dering. 

" '  If  it  had  not  been  for  this  strata- 
gem your  faithful  servants  could  not 
have  saved  you.  The  Czarovitch  has 
determined  you  shall  die.' 

'"And  he  thinks  that  I  am  dead?' 
I  asked,  with  a  strange  fluttering  at 
my  heart,  such  as  I  had  never  known 
before.  'But  when  he  hears  that  I 
am  alive!  Ah,  I  am  afraid!  I  am 
horribly  afraid!  Hide  me  from  him. 
Save  me  from  him.'  I  clung  to  the 
countess  with  a  desperate  terror. 

"  '  We  have  concealed  you,'  she  said, 
'in  this  remote  corner  of  the  palace. 
M.  de  Sasse  and  two  more  of  your 
attendants  are  alone  in  the  secret.' 

"  '  I  am  still  in  the  palace,  then  ? ' 

"  '  Yes ;  but  as  soon  as  you  have  re- 
covered a  little  strength  you  must  fly 
from  tbis  country.  We  have  all  incur- 
red a  terrific  responsibility  who  have 
been  concerned  in  this  transaction,  for 
we  have  deceived  not  only  the  Czaro- 
vitch, but  the  Czar  himself.  The 
court,  the  nation,  your  own  family,  all 
Europe,  have  put  on  mourning  for  you. 
The  funeral  service  has  been  perform- 
ed over  a  figure  which  represented  you, 
sweet  princess;  the  bells  have  tolled 
in  every  church  of  the  empire  for  the 
flower  of  Brunswick's  line,  for  the 
murdered  wife  of  the  Czarovitch — for 
your  supposed  death  is  laid  at  his 
door.' 

'"I  am  dead,  then,'  I  exclaimed, 
looking  straight  at  the  countess  with 
such  a  wild  expression  that  she  seemed 
terrified.  '  I  am  dead,  then,'  I  repeated 
again,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  my  bed, 
and  feeling  as  if  I  was  the  ghost  of  my 
former  self.  '  Am  I  to  remain  always 
here  ? '  I  asked,  glancing  with  a  shud- 
der at  the  dismantled  walls  and  narrow 
windows. 

" '  No,'  she  softly  answered.  '  Like 
a  bird  let  loose,  like  a  prisoner  set  free, 
you  will  fly  away  and  be  at  rest.' 


, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


*  Yes,  yes,'  I  cried,  laying  my  head  on 
her  shoulder.  'Rest— that  is  what  I 
want.'  And  my  tears  flowed  without 
restraint. 

"'Under  a  brighter  sky,'  she  con- 
tinued, '  amidst  fairer  scenes,  you  will 
await  the  time  when  a  change  of  cir- 
cumstances may  open  the  way  for  your 
return.' 

'"Cannot  I  go  to  Vienna,  to  my 
sister,  or  to  my  own  native  Wolfen- 
buttel?' 

"  I  immediately  saw  in  the  countess's 
face  how  much  this  question  distressed 
her.  '  Princess,'  she  said,  '  this  is  not 
possible.  Not  only  the  Czarevitch,  but 
the  Czar  himself,  believes  you  are  no 
more.  If  you  revealed  your  existence, 
you  would  expose  to  certain  death 
those  who,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives, 
saved  yours.  Besides,  the  Prince  will 
never  suffer  you  to  live.  His  emissaries 
would  compass  your  death  wherever 
you  went.  I  have  evidence  that  you 
were  taking  poison  in  your  food,  and 
that  it  was  only  the  antidotes  I  persuad- 
ed you  to  use  which  enabled  you  to 
struggle  against  its  effects.' 

" '  Then  I  have  no  hope  left,'  I  cried, 
'no  possible  refuge.  It  would  have 
been  better  to  let  me  die.  Would  that 
my  husband's  hand  had  dealt  a  heavier 
blow,  and  that  the  grave  had  really 
closed  upon  me  ! ' 

"  '  What !  is  there  no  charm  in  exist- 
ence?' Madame  de  Konigsmark  ex- 
claimed. '  Have  you  drained  the  cup 
of  happiness  during  the  twenty-three 
years  you  have  lived  ?  Cannot  enjoy- 
ment be  found  in  a  life  of  retirement  ? ' 

'"Drained  the  cup  of  happiness!' 
I  bitterly  cried.  '  Why  mock  my  de- 
spair ?  Have  I  known  a  single  day  of 
peace  since  I  married  the  Czarovitch  ? 
Let  me  die  of  hunger,  or  call  my  hus- 
band's hirelings  to  despatch  me  atonce, 
but  do  not  drive  me  mad  by  talking  to 
me  of  happiness.' 

"I  raved  on  for  some  time  in  this 


state,  half  conscious,  half  delirious,  I 
believe,  fearing  to  fix  my  thoughts  on 
any  thing,  and  doubting  whether  those 
who  had  saved  my  life  were  my  friends 
or  my  enemies.  Madame  de  Konigs- 
mark  sat  patiently  by  my  side  for  hours 
together,  watching,  as  I  have  since 
thought,  every  turn  of  my  mind.  She 
became  more  and  more  alarmed  at  the 
bold  measures  she  had  adopted,  and 
seemed  terrified  lest  I  should  refuse  to 
disappear  altogether  from  the  world 
where  I  was  known.  Nothing  could 
be  more  skilful  or  better  planned  than 
the  way  in  which  she  brought  me  to 
the  point.  She  did  not  say  any  thing 
more  on  the  subject  that  day,  but  on 
the  following  morning  she  induced  me 
to  rise  from  my  bed,  and  led  me  to  an 
open  window  looking  on  a  garden  at 
the  back  of  the  palace.  The  sudden 
burst  of  a  Russian  spring — the  most 
beautiful  though  the  most  short-lived 
of  seasons — was  imparting  a  wonderful 
beauty  and  sweetness  to  the  shrubs 
and  flowers.  The  sky  was  of  the  softest 
blue,  and  a  southern  wind  fanned  my 
cheek,  reminding  me  of  my  fatherland. 
It  awoke  the  wish  to  live.  I  could  not 
now  bear  the  idea  of  dying,  either  by 
violence  or  by  poison,  the  effects  of 
which  had  already,  in  spite  of  antidotes, 
begun  to  tell  upon  my  health.  I  felt 
incapable  of  forming  plans,  but  to  get 
away — to  escape — became  now  my 
most  intense  desire.  At  nights  I  was 
afraid  of  assassins.  Every  sound — 
every  step — made  me  tremble. 

"A  day  or  two  later,  Madame  de 
Konigsmark  came  to  me  in  great  alarm. 
One  of  the  prince's  favourites  had  been 
seen  in  .the  palace,  conversing  with  the 
servants  and  making  inquiries,  which 
M.  de  Sasse  had  overheard.  Rumours 
were  afloat,  she  told  me,  that  I  had 
been  killed  by  my  husband,  and  my 
attendants,  it  was  supposed,  would  un- 
dergo an  examination. 

'"Princess,  you  must  go  this  very 


96 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


night,'  she  said.  'I  will  accompany 
you  to  the  coast.  M.  de  Sasse  and  one 
of  your  women  will  go  with  you  to 
France.  You  can  easily  travel  thence 
to  America,  where  you  will  be  per- 
fectly safe  from  discovery.  I  have  se- 
cured for  you  a  sum  of  50,000  roubles, 
which  is  by  this  time  in  Messrs.  Frere's 
hands  in  Paris ;  and  all  the  jewels 
which  are  your  own  property  you  must 
take  with  you.  M.  de  Sasse  will  pass 
for  your  father ;  and  if  Mademoiselle 
Rosenkrantz  should  decline  to  leave 
Europe,  you  can  easily  procure  in 
France  another  attendant.  There  is 
not  a  moment  to  lose.  Your  own  life, 
and  the  lives  of  all  concerned,  are  at 
stake.' 

"  The  suddenness  of  the  proposal 
took  me  by  surprise.  I  seized  her 
hands  and  cried :  '  I  cannot  forsake  my 
son.' 

"  '  Alas  ! '  she  answered,  '  have  you 
enjoyed  a  parent's  rights,  or  a  parent's 
happiness  ?  Have  you  been  suffered  to 
be  a  mother  to  your  child  ?  He  is  safe 
in  the  Czar's  keeping.  He  can  protect 
him  better  than  you  could.  Believe 
me,  princess,  if  the  Czarovitch  discov- 
ers you  are  alive,  I  cannot  answer  for 
your  life  or  for  mine.  Do  you  think 
I  should  urge  you  to  forego  your  posi- 
tion if  there  were  any  other  way  of  sav- 
ing you  ? ' 

"It  was  not  difficult  to  persuade 
me;  I  had  not  strength  to  resist.  In 
the  middle  of  the  night  we  descended 
the  narrow  staircase,  and  found  a  car- 
riage waiting  for  us.  I  moved  like  a 
person  in  a  dream.  Madame  de  Ko- 
nigsmark  was  by  my  side.  I  do  not  re- 
member having  any  distinct  thoughts 
during  that  journey,  or  any  feeling  but 
that  of  a  hunted  animal  pining  to  es- 
cape. When  we  came  near  to  the  coast, 
and  I  felt  on  my  cheek  the  peculiar 
freshness  of  the  sea  air,  it  revived  me  a 
little ;  but  when,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  I  caught  sight  of  the  merchant 


vessel  which  I  was  to  embark  in,  a 
sense  of  desolation  came  over  me.  My 
friend  wept  bitterly  as  she  gave  me  a 
parting  embrace.  I  did  not  shed  a 
tear.  It  seemed  as  if  every  thing  within 
me  was  turned  to  stone.  I  sat  down  on 
my  wretched  cabin-bed;  the  anchor 
was  raised  and  we  began  to  move. 
For  a  long  time  I  neither  spoke  nor 
stirred.  The  poor  old  man — once  my 
servant,  then  my  only  protector — 
watched  me  all  that  day  and  the  fol- 
lowing night.  I  believe  the  first  words 
I  uttered  were  some  that  have  often 
been  on  my  lips  since  that  time :  '  Free 
amongst  the  dead  ! ' " 

"Free  with  the  freedom  of  God's 
children  !  "  d'Auban  exclaimed.  "  Oh, 
Princess  !  what  a  miracle  of  mercy  has 
your  life  been  ! " 

"  I  can  see  it  now ;  but  at  the  time 
all  was  darkness.  From  Hamburgh, 
where  we  landed,  we  went  to  Paris, 
and  soon  afterwards  to  Havre  de  Grace, 
where  we  embarked,  as  I  have  told  you 
before,  in  a  vessel  with  eight  hundred 
German  emigrants  on  board.  I  was 
impatient  to  get  away  from  France, 
always  fancying  myself  pursued  by  the 
Prince's  emissaries.  Even  at  New  Or- 
eans  I  was  in  a  constant  fear  of  being 
recognized,  and  insisted  on  leaving  it  as 
soon  as  possible.  We  only  stayed  till 
M.  de  Sasse  could  dispose  of  my  dia- 
monds, and  had  placed  the  money  at  a 
Danker's.  Here  I  thought  I  should  be 
out  of  the  reach  of  travellers.  You 
can  imagine  what  I  suffered  the  day 
;hose  strangers  came.  I  could  not  re- 
sist the  wish  to  hear  something  about 
Russia  and  my  poor  little  son.  Alex- 
ander Levacheff  recognized  me.  I  saw 
lim  in  private,  and  exacted  from  him 
an  oath  of  secrecy.  And  now  I  have 
only  a  very  few  more  words  to  say. 
Some  persons  in  our  position,  M.  d'Au- 
an,  might  feel  when  about  to  part, 
It  would  be  better  that  they  had 
never  met.'  But  I  can,  and  from  the 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


depths  of  my  heart  I  do  say :  '  It  has 
been  well  for  me  that  I  have  met  you, 
known  you,  trusted  you — ' " 

She  broke  down,  and  could  not  finish 
the  sentence. 

He  was  going  to  answer,  but  she 
stopped  him  and  said,  with  some  ex- 
citement : 

"  But  you — what  good  have  I  done 
you?  I  have  saddened  your  life  by 
the  sight  of  my  grief,  long  wounded 
you  by  my  silence,  and  now  I  leave 
you,  less  able  perhaps  to  bear  your 
solitary  existence  than  heretofore." 

He  could  scarcely  speak.  Men  do 
not  find  words  as  easily  as  women, 
when  they  are  deeply  affected. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said,  in  an  almost  in- 
audible voice.  "But,  nevertheless,  I 
am  glad  you  came ;  I  can  say  it  with 
truth.  Whatever  I  may  have  to  suffer, 
I  shall  always  thank  God  for  having 
known  you." 

"  Well,  it  may  be  one  day,  on  your 
death-bed,  perhaps,  a  consolation  for 
you  to  think  that  you  have  acted  very 
justly  and  kindly  towards  one  who, 
when  she  came  in  your  way,  was  drift- 
ing like  a  rudderless  bark  on  a  dark 
sea.  The  Bible  says,  that  man  is  blest 
who  could  have  done  evil  and  did  not 
do  it.  I  might  well  apply  to  you  those 
other  words  of  Scripture  :  *  Thou  art 
that  man.'  May  He  who  knows  all  re- 
ward you ! " 

No  other  words  passed  between  them. 
He  took  her  hand,  silently  kissed  it,  and 
withdrew.  The  shades  of  evening  had 
gradually  fallen,  and  the  moon  was 
shining  on  the  long  thick  grass  of  the 
lawn.  As  he  looked  upon  the  beauti- 
ful glade  and  the  silvered  landscape, 
he  thought  of  the  night  when  Therese 
had  for  the  first  time  spoken  to  him  of 
the  white  man's  daughter.  As  long  as 
ho  was  listening  to  her  he  had  hardly 
realized  what  it  would  be  to  live  and 
to  work  on  alone  in  that  spot  where  for 
two  years  she  had  been  his  constant 
7 


companion  and  the  principal  object  of 
his  life.  Now  it  seemed  suddenly  to 
come  upon  him.  He  not  only  knew  it 
must,  but  also  felt  it  ought  to  be. 
There  was  no  prospect  of  escape  from 
this  dreaded  separation.  It  might 
take  place  at  any  moment.  Overpow- 
ered by  his  grief,  he  sank  on  a  bench 
in  the  garden,  and  was  only  roused 
from  his  sad  musings  by  Simonette's 
voice. 

"  Monsieur  d'Auban ! "  she  said,  in  a 
loud  whisper. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  he  exclaimed, 
starting  to  his  feet. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  I 
want  you  to  promise  not  to  let  my  mis- 
tress" (it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
called  her  so)  "  leave  this  place  before 
I  come  back.  And  whilst  I  am  away, 
please  both  of  you  not  to  grieve  too 
much." 

"  What — what  are  you  talking  about  ? 
What  is  it  to  me  whether  you  go  or 
stay?" 

"Nothing,  I  know,"  answered  the 
girl,  in  a  voice  the  pathos  of  which 
might  have  struck  him  had  he  been 
less  absorbed  by  his  own  grief.  "  But 
I  am  going  away.  Do  not  be  harsh  to 
me.  Perhaps  you  may  never  see  me 
again." 

"  I  do  not  know  why  you  go.  I  can- 
not talk  to  you  to-night.  Leave  me 
alone." 

"  Will  you  not  say  a  kind  word  to 
me?" 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  go  away ! "  cried 
d'Auban,  scarcely  able  to  command 
himself. 

"  Do  not  be  cruel  to  me.  I  want  all 
my  strength  for  what  I  am  about  to  do. 
I  was  within  hearing  just  now,  when 
madame  was  speaking  to  you.  I  heard 
what  she  said." 

"  Good  heavens  I  and  do  you  dare  to 
tell  me  so  ? "  exclaimed  d'Auban,  pale 
with  anger.  "I  have  had  patience 
with  you  long.  I  have  shown  great 


98 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


forbearance,  but  I  shall  not  suffer  you 
to  remain  here  any  longer  as  a  spy  on 
your  mistress.  She  shall  know  of  your 
base  conduct."  He  walked  away, 
greatly  agitated. 

"  Wait — wait ! "  cried  Simonette,  in 
a  tone  of  anguish,  and  clasping  her 
hands  together.  He  did  not  turn  back. 
She  gazed  after  him  -for  a  moment. 
"Not  one  look!  not  one  word!"  she 
murmured.  "Well,  be  it  so.  In  the 
land  of  the  hereafter  there  will  be  no 
scorn,  no  unkindness.  Oh  for  strength 
of  limb,  and  skill,  and  courage !  Now 
for  the  spirit  of  my  childhood — the 
fearless  .spirit  and  the  brave  heart! 
God  and  my  good  angel  befriend  me  ! 
The  travellers  to  Canada  cannot  be 
here  before  the  end  of  next  month.  My 
father  says  so." 

D'Auban  passed  a  wretched  night. 
He  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  not 
having  examined  if  it  was  indeed  true 
that  the  French  girl  had  overheard  the 
Princess's  story,  and  not  taken  meas- 
ures to  secure  her  secrecy.  He  felt  his 
anger  had  made  him  imprudent.  He 
resolved  to  see  her  the  very  first  thing 
in  the  morning.  But  when,  as  early  as 
was  possible,  he  went  to  St.  Agathe, 
Simonette  was  not  to  be  found.  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  and  the  servants  sup- 
posed she  had  gone  to  the  village.  He 
went  there  at  once,  but  she  had  not 
been  seen.  He  told  Therese  she  had 
spoken  wildly  the  night  before  of  going 
away,  and  observed  that  she  did  not 
seem  surprised  at  her  disappearance. 
Father  Maret,  to  whom  he  communi- 
cated all  that  had  passed  the  day  before 
between  him  and  Madame  de  Moldau, 
and  also  during  his  brief  interview  with 
Simonette,  expressed  his  fears  that  she 
had  gone  to  New  Orleans  to  denounce 
her  mistress  as  the  possessor  of  stolen 
jewels. 

"  She  has  often  spoken  to  me  of  her 
scruples  on  that  subject,  and,  not  being 
able,"  he  said,  "to  reveal  to  her  the 


explanation  of  the  mystery,  she  never 
seemed  satisfied  with  my  advice  to  let 
the  matter  rest.  If,  however,  she  did 
overhear  the  truth  last  night,  it  is 
scarcely  credible  that  she  can  have 
carried  out  her  intention.  She  may, 
however,  have  heard  the  Princess  speak 
of  her  flight  from  Russia,  and  not  the 
preceding  facts — enough  to  confirm  her 
suspicions,  not  enough  to  enlighten  her. 
Would  I  had  stopped  and  questioned 
her !  The  doubt  is  most  harassing. 
But  she  cannot  have  started  alone  on  a 
journey  to  New  Orleans ! " 

"  She  is  quite  capable  of  doing  so." 

"  Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  try  and 
overtake  her  ? " 

"  If  even  we  knew  for  sure  which  way 
she  has  gone,  we  have  no  clue  as  to  the 
road  she  has  taken,  whether  by  the 
river  or  through  the  thickets.  The 
wild  attempt  may  be  fatal  to  her." 

"  Full  of  risks,  no  doubt.  But  she  is 
used  to  these  wild  journeys.  I  would 
give  a  great  deal  she  had  not  gone,  for 
more  reasons  than  one." 

D'Auban's  heart  sank  within  him. 
Letters  lately  received  from  New  Or- 
leans mentioned  that  orders  had  been 
sent  out  by  the  French  Government  to 
make  inquiries  in  the  colony  as  to  the 
sale  of  .jewels  supposed  to  belong  to 
the  Imperial  family  of  Russia,  and  to 
arrest  any  persons  supposed  to  be  in 
possession  of  them.  If  suspicions  pre- 
viously existing  were  to  be  renewed  by 
Simonette's  depositions,  the  Princess 
might  be  placed  in  a  most  embarrassing 
position ;  it  might  lead  to  inextricable 
difficulties ;  and  yet  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  wait — the  greatest 
of  trials  under  such  circumstances. 
Father  Maret  hoped  the  travellers  to 
Canada  would  soon  arrive.  D'Auban 
was  compelled  to  wish  for  it  also.  In 
the  mean  time  he  tried  to  re-assure  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau  about  Simonette's  dis- 
appearance by  stating  she  had  hinted 
to  him  the  day  before  that  she  had 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


99 


some  such  intention.  Though  with 
little  hope  of  success,  he  despatched 
men  in  various  directions,  and  one  in  a 
boat  for  some  miles  down  the  river,  to 
search  for  her.  At  night-fall  they  re- 
turned, without  having  discovered  the 
least  clue  to  the  road  she  had  taken. 
The  next  day  an  Indian  said  that  a 
canoe,  belonging  to  her  father,  which 
was  moored  a  few  days  before  in  a 
creek  some  leagues  below  the  village 
of  St.  Francis,  had  disappeared,  which 
seemed  to  confirm  the  supposition  that 
she  had  gone  to  New  Orleans.  D'Au- 
ban  suffered  intensely,  from  a  two-fold 
anxiety.  He  reproached  himself  for 
the  harsh  way  in  which  he  had  spoken 
to  Simonette,  and  sometimes  a  terrible 
fear  shot  across  his  mind.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  she  had  destroyed  herself! 
He  could  not  but  call  to  mind  the  wild- 
ness  of  her  look  and  manner.  He  knew 
how  ungovernable  were  her  feelings, 
and  how  she  brooded  on  an  unkind 
word  from  any  one  she  loved.  The 
blood  ran  coldly  in  his  veins  as  he  re- 
membered in  what  imploring  accents 
she  had  called  on  him  to  stop  on  the 
night  he  had  left  her  in  anger,  and  how 
she  had  said  that  the  task  she  had  to 
perform  would  require  all  her  strength. 
Had  she  gone  out  into  the  dark  night 
driven  away  by  his  unkindness,  and 
rushed  into  eternity  with  a  mortal  sin 
on  her  soul — the  child  whom  he  had 
instructed  and  baptized,  and  who  had 
loved  him  so  much  and  been  so  patient 
with  him,  though  with  others  so  fiery ! 
The  bare  surmise  of  such  a  possibility 
made  him  shudder,  especially  if  at  night 
he  caught  sight  of  something  white 
floating  on  the  river — a  cluster  of  lotus 
flowers,  or  a  branch  of  cherry  blossoms, 
which  at  a  distance  looked  like  a  wo- 
man's dress.  But  by  far  the  most  prob- 
able supposition  was,  that  she  had  gone 


to  denounce  her  mistress;  and  this 
caused  him  not  only  uneasiness  as  to 
the  consequences,  but  the  greatest  pain 
in  the  thought  that  her  affection  for 
him  had  prompted  this  act,  and  that 
if  he  had  had  more  patience  and  more 
indulgence  it  might  have  been  prevent- 
ed. Day  after  day  went  by  and  brought 
no  tidings  of  the  missing  girl,  nor  of 
the  expected  travellers.  Heavy  rains 
set  in,  and  even  letters  and  newspapers 
did  not  reach  St.  Agathe  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood. This  forced  inactivity  was 
especially  trying  at  a  time  when  their 
minds  were  on  the  full  stretch,  and 
news — even  bad  news — would  almost 
have  seemed  a  relief.  Since  their  last 
conversation  there  was  much  less  free- 
dom in  the  intercourse  between  d'Au- 
ban  and  Madame  de  Moldau.  They 
were  less  at  their  ease  with  each  other. 
Both  were  afraid  of  giving  way  to  the 
pleasure  of  being  together,  and  of  say- 
ing what  was  passing  in  their  minds. 
She  was  quite  a  prisoner  in  the  pavilion. 
During  those  long  weeks  of  incessant 
down-pouring  rain,  Simonette's  absence 
obliged  her  to  wait  on  herself,  and 
she  set  herself  with  more  resolution 
than  heretofore  to  attend  to  household 
affairs,  and  to  make  herself  independent 
of  the  services  of  others.  She  read  a 
great  deal,  too,  and  almost  exhausted 
d'Auban's  small  collection  of  books. 
He  no  longer  spent  the  evenings  at  St. 
Agathe,  but  came  there  once  a  day  to 
see  if  she  had  any  commands.  He  did 
not  venture,  however,  to  absent  himself 
for  many  hours  together,  for  the  fear 
never  left  him  of  Simonette's  disclosures 
bringing  about  some  untoward  event. 
Week  followed  week,  and  nothing  in- 
terrupted the  dull,  heavy  monotony  of 
the  long  days  of  rain,  or  brought  with 
it  any  change  to  cheer  the  spirits  of 
the  dwellers  in  the  wilderness. 


100 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


CHAPTEE    IX. 


All  was  ended  now ;  the  joy,  and  the  fear,  and  the  sorrow ; 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless  unsatisfied  longing ; 
All  the  dull  deep  pain  and  constant  anguish  of  patience. 

Longfellow. 

As  are  our  hearts,  our  way  is  one, 
And  cannot  be  divided.    Strong  affection 
Contends  with  all  things,  and  o'ercometh  all  things. 
Will  I  not  live  with  thee  ?    Will  I  not  cheer  thee  ? 
Wouldst  thou  be  lonely  then  ?    Wouldst  thou  be  sad  ? 

Joanna  JSaillie. 


AT  last,  one  morning,  the  rain  ceas- 
ed ;  the  heavy  clouds  rolled  away  tow- 
ards the  West,  and  hung  in  heavy 
masses  over  the  distant  hills ;  the  birds 
began  to  sing ;  the  hares  and  rabbits 
emerged  from  their  holes,  and  ran  once 
more  over  the  greensward.  The  buffa- 
loes came  trooping  down  from  the 
mountains  to  the  prairies,  and  a  hoary 
bison  swam  across  the  river,  and  looked 
out  upon  the  world  from  one  of  the 
flowery  islands  on  its  bosom,  like  a  con- 
queror taking  possession  of  a  kingdom. 
A  burst  of  glorious  sunshine  gladdened 
the  expanse  of  wood  and  water  around 
St.  Agathe,  and  the  herbage  and  the 
flowers,  and  living  things  without 
number,  seemed  to  exult  in  its  light. 
The  brightness  of  that  first  fine  morn- 
ing, after  weeks  of  incessant  rain,  was 
like  the  first  return  of  joy  to  a  heart 
long  oppressed  by  grief.  It  felt  almost 
like  a  presage  of  approaching  change 
in  the  lives  of  its  inhabitants.  It  was 
a  Sunday  morning,  too,  and  d'Auban, 
who  heard  that  Madame  de  Moldau 
had  been  longing  to  get  to  church, 
brought  his  horse  ready  saddled  for 
her  to  the  door  of  the  pavilion,  and 
prepared  to  conduct  her  in  this  way 
to  the  village.  She  consented;  he 
took  the  bridle  in  his  hand,  and  the 
Indian  servant  and  the  Negro  boy  fol- 
lowed them  on  foot.  They  crossed  the 
wood  between  them  and  the  river,  which 


was  sometimes  traversed  in  a  boat  and 
sometimes  by  means  of  a  series  of  small 
islets  forming  a  kind  of  natural  bridge, 
the  spaces  between  being  filled  up  with 
a  network  of  floating  verdure.  Their 
progress  was  slow,  for  the  ground,  sat- 
urated with  wet,  was  in  some  places 
almost  impassable.  D'Auban  kept  a 
little  in  advance  of  the  horse,  and  tried 
at  each  step  the  firmness  of  their  foot- 
ing. The  dripping  branches  over  their 
heads  rained  upon  them  as  they  went 
along.  But  the  scents  were  delicious, 
and  the  air  very  reviving  to  those  who 
had  been  long  confined  within  the 
house.  For  the  first  time  for  many 
weeks  Madame  de  Moldau  was  in  good 
spirits :  she  murmured  the  first  words 
of  the  service  of  the  Mass — "I  shall  go 
to  the  altar  of  God,  of  God  who  renews 
my  youth,"  and  a  sort  of  youthful  hap- 
piness beamed  in  her  face;  she  made 
nosegays  of  the  wild  flowers  which  her 
attendants  plucked  for  her,  from  the 
banks  and  from  the  boughs  through 
which  they  threaded  their  way.  But 
the  flowers  were  not  to  adorn  the  altar, 
nor  the  little  party,  on  its  way  to  the 
church,  to  hear  Mass  that  day.  The 
sound  of  the  gong,  which  served  as  a 
bell,  came  booming  over  the  water,  but 
its  summons  was  to  sound  in  vain  for 
them ;  they  were  about  to  be  stopped 
on  their  road. 
D'Auban  was  just  examining  whether 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


101 


it  would  be  possible  to  cross  the  river 
on  the  island  bridge,  or  to  get  the  boat, 
when  a  cry  reached  their  ears — a  low, 
feeble,  and  yet  piercing  cry. 

"  Did  you  hear  ? "  they  all  exclaimed 
at  the  same  time.  The  boy  shuddered, 
and  said  it  was  one  of  the  water-spirits 
that  had  cried  out.  The  Indian  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  with  the 
long-sightedness  common  amongst  her 
race,  discerned  a  speck  in  the  distance, 
which  she  declared  was  a  boat. 

"But  it  is  a  phantom  boat!"  she 
added.  "  There  is  no  one  in  it,  and  it 
is  coming  towards  us  very  slowly  ;  but 
it  advances,  and  against  the*  stream." 
Madame  de  Moldau  turned  pale.  She 
was  prone  to  believe  in  the  marvellous, 
and  easily  credited  stories  of  ghosts  and 
apparitions.  They  all  gazed  curiously, 
and  then  anxiously,  at  the  little  boat  as 
it  approached. 

"  There  is  somebody  in  it,  after  all ! " 
the  Indian  exclaimed. 

"Of  course  there  is,"  said  d'Auban, 
with  a  smile ;  "  but  it  is  a  child,  I  think ; 
a  small  creature,  quite  alone." 

"It  is  Simonette,"  cried  the  Indian. 
"Good  God!  I  believe  it  is."  There 
was  an  instant  of  breathless  silence; 
the  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  on  the  little 
boat.  It  ceased  to  advance.  The  oars, 
which  could  now  be  seen,  fell  with  a 
splash  into  the  water,  and  the  figure  of 
the  rower  disappeared. 

"She  has  fainted!"  cried  d'Auban, 
dreadfully  agitated ;  thought  upon 
thought,  conjecture  on  conjecture, 
crossing  his  mind  with  lightning  rapid- 
ity. He  hastily  assisted  Madame  de 
Moldau  to  dismount,  made  her  sit 
down  on  a  fallen  tree,  gave  his  horse 
in  charge  to  the  boy,  and  then  spring- 
ing from  one  islet  to  another,  and  lastly 
swimming  to  the  one  against  which  the 
boat  had  drifted,  he  saw  the  lifeless 
form  of  the  young  girl  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  There  was  not  a  shadow 
of  colour  in  her  face ;  her  hands  were 


transparently  thin,  and  sadly  bruised 
within  by  the  pressure  of  the  oars ;  a 
dark  rim  under  her  eyes  indicated  star- 
vation. If  not  dead,  she  was  appar- 
ently dying.  D'Auban's  chest  heaved, 
and  a  mist  rose  before  his  eyes.  It  was 
dreadful  thus  to  see  the  creature  whom 
he  had  known  from  a  child,  so  full  of 
life  and  spirits,  to  think  of  her  dying 
without  telling  where  she  had  been, 
what  she  had  done,  without  hearing 
words  of  pardon,  blessing,  and  peace. 
He  raised  her  in  his  arms,  chafed  her 
hands,  and  tried  to  force  into  her 
mouth  some  drops  of  brandy  from  his 
flask.  After  a  while  she  languidly 
opened  her  eyes,  and  when  she  saw 
him,  a  faint  smile  for  an  instant  light- 
ed up  her  face.  She  pointed  to  her 
breast,  but  the  gleam  of  consciousness 
soon  passed  away,  and  she  fell  back 
again  in  a  swoon. 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  quietly 
laying  her  down  again,  with  her  head 
supported  by  a  plank,  he  seized  the 
oars,  and  vigorously  pulled  towards  the 
spot  where  Madame  de  Moldau  and 
the  servants  were  waiting.  After  a 
rapid  consultation,  it  was  determined 
that  he  should  row  her  and  the  dying 
girl  to  the  opposite  shore,  and  then 
return  to  convey  the  horse  across.  The 
two  servants  in  the  mean  time  contrived 
to  cross  the  islet  bridge.  When  they 
met  on  the  other  side,  the  boy  was  sent 
to  the  village  to  fetch  assistance,  in 
order  that  Simonette  might  be  con- 
veyed to  Therese's  hut,  the  nearest 
resting-place  at  hand,  and  to  beg 
Father  Maret  to  come  to  them  as  soon 
as  possible.  Madame  de  Moldau  had 
thrown  her  cloak  on  some  moss  less  sat- 
urated with  wet  than  the  long  grass,  and 
sitting  down  upon  it,  received  in  her 
arms  the  light  form  which  d'Auban 
carefully  lifted  out  of  the  boat.  She 
pressed  the  wasted  limbs  against  her 
bosom,  striving  thus  to  restore  warmth 
to  them.  She  breathed  through  the 


102 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO     BE    TRUE. 


cold  lips,  whilst  he  chafed  the  icy  feet. 
t  They  scarcely  spoke  at  all  during  these 
moments  of  anxious  watching.  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau's  tears  fell  on  the  poor 
girl's  brow  and  cheeks.  He  gazed 
upon  her  with  the  most  mournful  feel- 
ings. Their  thoughts  were  doubtless 
the  same.  They  wondered  where  she 
had  been.  They  prayed  she  might  not 
die  before  the  priest  came.  ' 

After  swallowing  some  more  brandy, 
which  they  had  poured  down  her 
throat,  she  revived  again  a  little. 
D'Auban  forced  into  her  mouth  some 
crumbs  from  a  piece  of  bread  he  had 
in  his  pocket,  and  in  an  authoritative 
manner  bade  her  eat  them.  She  opened 
her  eyes,  which  looked  unnaturally 
large,  and  obeyed.  After  two  or  three 
ineffectual  attempts  at  speaking,  she 
succeeded  in  saying,  as  she  pointed 
again  to  her  breast,  "  Here,  here,  in  my 
dress."  To  quiet  her  he  nodded  assent, 
and  said  he  understood;  upon  which 
she  closed  her  eyes  again.  He  went  on 
putting  in  her  mouth  a  crumb  of  bread 
at  a  time. 

In  the  mean  time  four  men  from  the 
village  were  bringing  a  sort  of  rude 
litter,  made  of  planks  and  moss ;  and 
Father  Maret  accompanied  them.  The 
boy  had  arrived  at  the  church  just  as 
he  was  finishing  Mass. 

"  She  has  revived  a  little,"  whis- 
pered d'Auban,  "but  is  scarcely  con- 
scious. Feel  her  pulse.  Will  you  try 
and  speak  to  her  now,  or  can  we  venture 
to  carry  her  at  once  to  Therese's  hut  ? " 

"  I  think  you  may,"  said  the  priest, 
counting  the  beats  of  her  feeble  pulse  ; 
"  I  fear  she  will  not  recover,  but  there 
is  still  some  strength  in  the  poor  child. 
She  will  be  much  more  conscious,  I  ex- 
pect, in  a  little  while  than  she  is  now." 
He  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and 
sighed  deeply.  "  If  you  please,  I  will 
ride  your  horse  by  the  side  of  the  litter, 
and  watch  her  closely.  Wait,  however, 
for  one  instant."  Before  Simonette 


was  lifted  from  Madame  de  Moldau's 
knees  he  bent  down  and  whispered: 
"  My  child,  are  you  truly  sorry  for  all 
your  sins  against  the  good  God  who 
loves  you  so  much  ? " 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  answered 
distinctly,  "  Yes,  Father,  very  sorry." 

"Then  I  will  give  you  absolution, 
my  child,"  he  said,  and  pronounced 
the  words  which  have  spoken  peace  to 
so  many  contrite  hearts  since  the  day 
that  our  Lord  said,  "  Whose  sins  you 
shall  forgive  they  are  forgiven.  Lo,  I 
am  with  you  always  to  the  end  of  the 
world." 

After  sjie  was  laid  on  the  couch  of 
moss,  covered  with  skins,  which  was 
Therese's  bed,  Simonette  fell  fast  asleep 
for  two  or  three  hours.  When  she 
awoke  she  eagerly  asked  for  d'Auban 
and  Madame  de  Moldau. 

"  Will  you  not  first  see  the  chief  of 
prayer  ? "  said  Therese,  who  feared  she 
would  exhaust  all  her  strength  in 
speaking  to  them. 

"  No !  I  must  see  them  first ;  but  I 
wish  the  Father  to  come  in  also." 

In  a  few  moments  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau was  sitting  on  one  side  of  her,  and 
Father  Maret  on  the  other  side  of  the 
couch.  D'Auban  was  standing  at  its 
foot,  more  deeply  affected  than  any 
one  would  have  thought  from  the  stern 
composure  of  his  countenance.  It  was 
by  a  strong  effort  he  repressed  the  ex- 
pression of  feelings  which  were  wring- 
ing his  heart,  for  it  was  one  of  the  ten- 
derest  that  ever  beat  in  a  man's  breast. 

Simonette  looked  at  him  fixedly  for 
a  moment,  then  tried  to  undo  the 
fastenings  of  her  dress.  She  was  too 
weak,  and  made  a  sign  to  Madame  de 
Moldau  to  do  it  for  her.  Then  she 
drew  from  her  bosom  a  newspaper  and 
a  letter.  The  former  was  a  number  of 
the  "  Gazette  de  France,"  and  an  arti- 
cle in  it  was  marked  with  black  ink. 
She  put  her  finger  upon  it,  and  beck- 
oned d'Auban  to  come  nearer.  "It 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


103 


was  for  this  I  went,"  she  murmured. 
"  That  is  why  I  wanted  her  to  stay." 

D'Auban  took  the  paper,  and  moved 
away  a  little.  She  watched  him  with 
an  eagerness  which  brought  a  faint 
colour  into  her  cheek.  He,  on  the 
contrary,  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  as 
his  eyes  glanced  over  the  passage  in 
the  Gazette  and  then  at  the  letter  she 
had  brought.  He  came  round  to  the 
side  of  the  bed,  and  whispered  to  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau,  "Will  you  give  up 
your  seat  to  me  for  a  moment  ? "  She 
looked  surprised,  but  immediately  rose, 
and  went  out  of  the  hut  with  Therese. 

D'Auban  handed  the  newspaper  and 
the  letter  to  Father  Maret,  and  then 
bending  down  his  head  and  taking 
Simonette's  cold  hand  in  his — "My 
poor  child,"  he  said,  with  a  faltering 
voice,  "you  have  killed  yourself,  I 
fear  1 " 

"But  you  will  be  happy,"  she  an- 
swered, and  a  large  tear  rolled  down 
her  cheek. 

"No!  No!  I  shall  always  reproach 
myself — always  feel  as  if  I  had  caused 
your  death."  • 

"But  you  must  not  do  so,  because  I 
am  very  glad  to  die,  and  always  wished 
to  die  for  you ; "  and  turning  to  the 
priest,  she  said,  "  Father  1  did  not  our 
Lord  say  that  no  greater  love  could  a 
man  have  than  to  lay  down  his  life  for 
a  friend  ? " 

"God  may  hear  our  prayers;  you 
may  yet  live,"  d'Auban  cried. 

"  Do  not  agitate  her,"  Father  Maret 
said;  "let  her  tell  you  quietly  what 
she  wishes,  and  then  leave  her  to  turn 
all  her  thoughts  to  the  next  world." 

The  dying  girl  raised  herself  up  a 
little,  and  uttered  at  different  intervals 
the  following  sentences : — "  I  had  re- 
solved to  denounce  her,  because  I 
thought  she  was  wicked,  and  I  was 
afraid  you  would  marry  her  .  .  .  But  I 
heard  her  tell  you  her  story  .  .  .  and 
I  saw  how  much  you  loved  her  .  .  . 


and  that  she  loved  you.  Hans  had  told 
me  the  night  before  that  he  thought 
the  great  emperor's  son  was  dead.  But 
he  was  not  certain  of  it.  ...  I  was 
going  the  next  day  ...  to  New  Or- 
leans to  accuse  her  ...  I  went,  but  it 
was  to  find  out  if  she  might  stay  .  .  . 
if  you  could  marry  her  ...  and  be 
happy.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  1  Simonette,  my  dear,  dear  child, 
it  breaks  my  heart."  .  .  Father  Maret 
made  an  authoritative  sign  to  him  to 
command  his  feelings,  and  she  went  on 
in  the  same  faltering  voice : — 

"  I  found  it  was  true,  and  they  gave 
me  that  newspaper,  and  M.  Perrier 
wrote  for  me  that  letter,  that  you 
might  be  quite  sure  it  was  true."  At 
that  moment  the  poor  girl,  with  the 
quick  perception  which  even  then  she 
had  not  lost,  saw  a  shade  of  anxiety  in 
his  face.  "  He  did  not  know  why  I 
asked  for  it,"  she  added;  "I  did  not 
tell  him  any  thing."  She  paused,  and 
then  her  mind  seemed  to  wander  a  lit- 
tle. She  began  again :  "  I  went  very 
quickly  down  the  river,  but  I  was  very 
long  coming  back  .  .  .  like  what  you 
once  said  about  sinning  and  repenting, 
Father.  .  .  .  But  I  did  not  repent  of 
having  gone  ...  I  prayed  all  the  day 
.  .  .  prayed  so  hard  .  .  .  and  rowed 
very  hard.  But  not  so  hard  at  last.  I 
had  nothing  to  eat.  ...  It  was  much 
longer  than  I  thought  from  the  last 
settlement.  I  ate  grapes  as  I  went 
along,  but  the  rain  had  spoiled  them 
.  .  .  and  I  went  so  slowly  ...  so 
slowly  at  last  .  .  .  and  then  when  I 
could  not  row  any  more,  I  screamed." 
.  .  .  "Oh!  that  scream,"  murmured 
d'Auban  ;  "  I  shall  remember  it  to  my 
dying  day ! "  "I  have  only  one  thing 
more  to  say ;  I  had  always  wished  to 
die  for  you.  Nothing,  nothing  else.  If 
I  have  loved  you  too  much,  I  hope 
God  will  forgive  me." 

"  He  will,  my  child,"  said  the  priest. 
"  If  now  you  turn  to  Him  with  all  your 


104 


TOO. STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


heart ;  and  oh  !  my  child,  if  a  human 
being  has  been  so  kind  to  you,  and 
saved  you  from  so  many  evils,  as  I 
know  you  think  this  good  man  has 
done ;  if  he,  God's  creature,  has  done 
so  much  for  you;  think  of  what  His 
goodness  must  be,  of  which  all  human 
goodness  is  but  a  faint  reflection." 

Simonette  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven — 
her  lips  silently  moved — a  smile  of 
greater  sweetness  than  any  that  had 
ever  lighted  up  her  face  before  passed 
over  it,  and  then  she  said  in  a  low  voice : 
"  Father !  during  those  long  weary  days, 
and  the  dark  solitary  nights,  on  the 
river,  God  was  very  good  to  me,  and 
made  me  love  Him  more  than  any  one 
on  earth.  I  am  very  glad  to  go  to 
Him.  .  .  .  God  of  my  heart,  and  my 
portion  for  ever!"  She  pressed  the 
crucifix  to  her  breast,  and  remained 
silent. 

Father  Maret  made  a  sign  to  d'Auban 
to  withdraw.  In  a  little  while  he  called 
him  back,  and  Madame  de  Moldau  and 
Therese  and  the  servants  knelt  with 
him  round  the  bed.  The  last  sacra- 
ments were  administered,  and  they  all 
joined  in  the  prayers  for  the  dying. 
When  Father  Maret  uttered  the  words 
"  Go  forth  Christian  soul ! "  a  faint 
struggle  was  visible  in  the  pallid  face — 
a  faint  sigh  was  breathed,  and  then  the 
heart  that  had  throbbed  so  wildly  ceased 
to  beat.  "  Requiescat  in  pace  ! "  said 
the  priest,  and  d'Auban  hid  his  face  in 
the  bed  of  moss,  and  wept  like  a  child 
by  the  corpse  of  the  poor  girl  who  had 
loved  him  "  not  wisely,  but  too  well." 

There  was  something  shrinking  and 
sensitive  in  Madame  de  Moldau's  dis- 
position, which  made  her  peculiarly 
susceptible  of  painful  impressions.  It 
is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  those  who 
are  harshly  and  unjustly  treated,  always 
or  even  generally,  become  callous  to 
such  treatment ;  that  after  having  met 
with  cruelty  they  are  not  sensible  of 
slight  unkindnesses.  This  is  so  far 


from  being  the  case,  that  with  regard 
to  children  who  for  years  have  had 
blows  and  curses  for  their  daily  portion, 
it  is  observed  that  tenderness  and  gen- 
tleness are  peculiarly  needed,  in  order 
to  avoid  checking  the  gradual  return 
to  confidence,  and  the  expanding  of 
affection  in  their  young  hearts.  The 
new  joy  of  being  loved  is  easily  extin- 
guished. They  are  so  fearful  of  losing 
it,  that  a  cold  look  or  word  from  one 
who  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives. has 
fondled  and  caressed  them,  seems  to 
wound  them  quite  in  a  different  manner 
from  those  on  whom  the  sunshine  of 
affection  has  beamed  from  their  earliest 
infancy.  The  heart,  when  sore  with  a 
heavy  affliction,  winces  at  every  touch, 
and  when,  on  the  contrary,  great  hap- 
piness fills  it,  the  least  casual  pleasure 
is  sensibly  felt.  The  slow  admittance 
of  pleasurable  feelings  in  the  case  of 
those  who  grind  amidst  the  stern  neces- 
sities and  iron  facts  of  life,  is  one  of  the 
most  affecting  things  noticed  in  dealing 
with  the  poor.  It  is  akin  to  that  grati- 
tude of  theirs  which  Wordsworth  said 
"  so  often  left  him  grieving." 

Madame  de  Moldau  had  experienced 
a  slight  feeling,  not  of  annoyance  or 
displeasure,  but  simply  of  depression, 
at 'the  manner  in  which  d'Auban  ap- 
peared to  have  lost  all  thought  of  her 
during  the  whole  time  of  poor  Simpn- 
ette's  dying  hours.  This  was  selfish, 
heartless  some  people  would  say ;  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  any  engrossing 
affection,  if  it  is  not  carefully  watched, 
is  apt  to  make  us  selfish  and  unfeeling. 
Conscience,  reason  and  prayer,  banish 
these  bad  first  thoughts  more  or  less 
speedily  in  those  under  the  influence 
of  a  higher  principle ;  but  the  emotion 
which  precedes  reflection  often  marks 
the  danger  attending  a  too  passionate 
attachment ;  and  when  it  is  one  which 
ought  to  be  subdued  and  renounced — 
which  has  not  the  least  right  to  look 
for  a  return  or  to  expect  consideration — 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


105 


sharp  is  the  pang  caused  by  any 
symptoms  of  neglect  or  indifference. 
Madame  de  Moldau  did  not  know  the 
bitter  self-reproach  which  was  affecting 
d'Auban's  heart;  she  did  not  know 
that  Simonette  had  lovingly  thrown 
away  her  life  for  the  sake  of  bringing 
him  tidings  which  would  change  the 
whole  aspect  of  his  destiny  and  of  her 
own.  But  she  saw  him  hanging  over 
her  death-bed  with  irrepressible  emo- 
tion, his  eyes  full  of  tears — his  soul 
moved  to  its  very  depths.  It  did  so 
happen,  that  when  he  rose  from  the 
side  of  the  dead,  he  had  abruptly  left 
the  hut,  as  if  unable  to  command  him- 
self. He  did  feel  at  that  moment  as  if 
he  could  not  look  at  her.  The  new 
hope  which  had  come  to  him  was  so 
mingled  with  thoughts  of  the  closing 
scene,  and  of  the  sacrifice  of  Simonette's 
young  life,  that  it  seemed  unnatural — 
almost  painful — to  dwell  upon  it,  and 
so  he  passed  by  her  without  speaking 
to  her,  and  went  straight  into  the 
church. 

Meanwhile  she  suffered  intensely. 
True,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
separate  from  him,  to  accept  a  lonely 
existence  in  a  distant  country,  even 
perhaps  never  to  set  eyes  upon  him 
again ;  but  to  think  he  had  not  really 
cared  for  her — cared  perhaps  for  another 
person  under  her  roof— the  thought 
stabbed  her  to  the  heart,  even  as  if  no 
unreal  weapon  had  inflicted  the  wound. 
Her  brow  flushed  with  a  woman's  re- 
sentment. The  pride  of  a  royal  line — 
the  German  ancestral  pride  latent  within 
her,  burst  forth  in  that  hour  with  a 
vehemence  which  took  her  by  surprise. 
Had  Charlotte  of  Brunswick,  the  wife 
of  the  Czarevitch,  the  daughter  of 
princes,  the  sister  of  queens  and  kings, 
been  made  the  object  of  a  momentary 
caprice  ?  Had  she  tacitly  owned  affec- 
tion for  a  man  who  had  lovefl  a  base- 
born  Quadroon  ?  The  fear  was  mad- 
dening ? 


Yes!  madness  lies  that  way.  An 
injury  received — a  wrong  suffered  at 
the  hands  of  one  loved  and  trusted, 
may  well  unsettle  reason  on  its  throne — 
the  mere  suspicion  of  it  makes  strange 
havoc  in  the  brain,  when  we  rest  on 
the  wretched  pinnacle  we  raise  for  our- 
selves—the false  Gods  of  our  worship. 
There  is  but  one  remedy  for  that  parch- 
ing fever  of  the  soul.  To  bow  down 
lower  than  men  would  thrust  us.  To 
fall  down  at  His  feet  who  knelt  at  the 
feet  of  Peter  and  even  of  Judas — who 
would  have  knelt  at  our  feet  had  we 
been  there.  This  is  the  thought  that 
leaves  no  room  for  pride,  scarcely  for 
indignation,  as  far  as  we  are  ourselves 
concerned.  It  had  been  often  set  be- 
fore Madame  de  Moldau,  and  its  re- 
membrance soon  caused  a  reaction  in 
her  feelings.  What  was  she,  poor  worm 
of  earth,  that  she  should  resent  neglect  ? 
What  had  she  done  to  deserve  affec- 
tion ?  How  should  she  dare  to  suspect 
the  sincerity  of  so  true  a  heart — so  noble 
a  character  ?  And  if,  as  she  had  some- 
times thought,  that  poor  girl  loved  him, 
had  she  not  a  better  right  to  do  so  than 
herself,  a  wedded  wife,  who  ought 
never  to  have  admitted  this  affection 
into  her  heart  ?  And  did  not  her  un- 
timely death  claim  from  him  a  more 
than  common  pity?  The  cold  dull 
hardness  in  her  bosom  gave  way  to  ten- 
derness. The  sweetness  of  humiliation, 
the  joy  of  the  true  penitent,  took  its 
place.  She  went  into  the  chamber  of 
death,  and  remained  there  till  Father 
Maret  came  to  request  her  to  follow 
him  to  his  house. 

D'Auban  was  there.  He  went  up  to 
her  as  she  entered,  and  seemed  about 
to  speak,  but,  as  if  unable  to  do  so,  he 
whispered  to  the  Father:  "I  cannot 
break  itto  her;  tell  her  yourself."  Then, 
holding  her  hand  in  both  his,  he  said, 
with  much  feeling — "Princess!  thus 
much  let  me  say  before  I  go ;  whatever 
may  be  your  wishes  or  your  commands, 


100 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


my  time,  my  actions,  and  my  life,  are 
at  your  disposal." 

She  looked  up  in  astonishment,  and 
when  he  had  left  the  room  turned  to 
Father  Maret,  and  asked,  "  What  does 
he  mean  ?  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  He  alludes,  Princess,  to  a  great 
event,  the  news  of  which  has  just  reached 
us ;  one  that  touches  you  nearly."  He 
paused  a  minute,  and  then  quietly  added, 
"The  Czarovitch  is  dead."  She  did 
not  start,  or  faint,  or  weep.  For  several 
minutes  she  sate  still,  not  knowing 
what  was  the  kind  of  feeling  which 
tightened  her  heart,  oppressed  her  brain, 
and  kept  her  silent  and  motionless  as  a 
statue. 

"  Dead ! "  she  slowly  repeated.  "  How 
did  he  die?" 

"  It  is  a  mournful  story,"  the  Father 
answered.  •  "  The  Prince  came  back  to 
Russia,  as  you  know,  on  a  promise  of 
pardon;  but  fresh  accusations  were 
brought  against  him  since  his  return. 
He  was  tried,  and  found  guilty." 

"  Oh !  do  not  tell  me  that  his  father 
put  him  to  death." 

"  The  account  given  in  this  paper 
from  Russian  sources  is,  that  his  sen- 
tence was  read  to  him,  and  that  the 
shock  proved  fatal  to  a  constitution 
weakened  by  excesses.  It  says  he  fell 
ill,  and  never  rallied  again.  It  also 
mentions  that  he  received  the  last  sacra- 
ments before  the  whole  court ;  that  he 
requested  to  see  his  father  before  his 
death,  and  that  they  embraced  with 
many  tears.  The  French  editor,  how- 
ever, throws  great  doubts  on  the  cor- 
rectness of  this  statement,  and  hints  at 
the  prince  having  been  poisoned  by  his 
father." 

"  Oh !  surely  this  must  be  false.  I 
cannot,  cannot  believe  it.  ...  Is  it  not 
too  horrible  to  be  true  ?  And  yet,  after 
what  I  have  seen.  .  .  .  Oh !  why  did  I 
ever  belong  to  them?  Why  was  my 
late  cast  with  theirs  ? " 

"  You  are  not  obliged ;  you  had  bet- 


ter not,  Princess,  form  a  judgment  on 
these  conflicting  statements.  Leave 
the  doubtful,  the  dreadful  past  in  God's 
hands.  Think  of  it  only  when  you 
pray,  that  your  husband's  soul  may 
find  mercy,  and  that  this  terrible 
event  may  have  changed  his  father's 
heart. 

"  He  may  have  repented,  poor  Prince ! 
He  had  some  kind  of  faith,  and  he  loved 
his  mother.  If  he  had  had  a  wife  who 
had  prayed  for  him  then.  ...  Oh !  my 
God,  forgive  me."  She  sank  down  on 
her  knees — then  suddenly  lifting  up  her 
head,  she  asked,  "  How  did  this  news 
come  ?  Is  it  certainly  true  ? " 

"  Perfectly  certain — the  poor  girl  who 
brought  the  newspaper  from  New  Or- 
leans also  brought  a  letter  from  M.  Per- 
rier  to  M.  d'Auban,  which  places  the 
matter  beyond  all  doubt.  Will  you 
read  it,  Princess  ? "  "  Read  it  to  me," 
she  answered,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 
"  I  cannot  see."  Father  Maret  read  as 
follows : — 

"My  DEAK  M.  D'AUBAN, — 

"  A  young  woman,  who  says  she  is 
your  servant,  has  made  a  very  earnest 
request  that  I  should  state  to  you  in 
writing  that  the  news  contained  in  the 
last  number  of  the  '  Gazette  de  France,' 
relative  to  the  death  of  the  Czarovitch 
of  Russia,  is  perfectly  authentic.  It  is 
most  undoubtedly  so;  notice  of  this 
Prince's  demise  has  been  received  at 
the  Court  of  France,  and  their  Majesties 
have  gone  into  mourning.  I  do  not 
know  on  what  account,  nor  would  your 
servant  tell  me  why,  this  intelligence  is 
important  to  you.  I  conjecture  that  it 
may  have  some  connection  with  a  rob- 
bery of  jewels  belonging  to  the  late 
Prince's  wife,  which  are  said  to  have 
been  sold  in  the  colony.  If  any  infor- 
mation on  that  subject  should  come  to 
your  notice,  I  should  feel  obliged  to  you 
to  let  me  know  of  it.  But  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  it  an  idle  story.  Wishing 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


107 


you  every  happiness,  I  remain,  my  dear 
M.  d'Auban, 

"  Your  attached  and  obedient  ser- 
vant, PERKIER." 

"Poor  Simonette!"  exclaimed  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau.  "  These  are  then  the 
papers  she  gave  M.  d'Auban.  This  was 
what  she  was  pointing  to  when  she 
touched  her  breast,  whilst  lying  half 
unconscious  on  my  knees.  But  what, 
reverend  father,  do  you  suppose  was 
exactly  her  object  ? " 

Madame  de  Moldau  blushed  deeply 
as  she  put  this  question,  and  as  Father 
Maret  hesitated  a  little  before  answering 
it,  she  said :  "  Had  she,  as  M.  d'Auban 
thought,  overheard  our  conversation  on 
the  night  before  she  went  away  ?  Do 
you  think  she  knew  who  I  am  ? " 

"No  doubt  that  she  did,  Princess. 
She  told  us  that  she  had  intended  to 
go  to  New  Orleans  to  accuse  you  of 
possessing  stolen  jewels,  but  that  having 
discovered  who  you  are,  she  went,  but 
with  a  different  purpose.  She  wished 
to  find  out  if  you  were  free,  thinking,  I 
suppose,  that  this  knowledge  might 
greatly  influence  yours  and  M.  d'Au- 
ban's  fate." 

"Poor  girl,  poor  Simonette,  it  was 
for  his  sake,  then ;  but  I  do  not  see,  I 
do  not  know,  that  it  can  make  any  dif- 
ference  I  thought  she  had  left 

me  in  anger.  Thank  God,  I  did  not 
resent  it;  but  how  little  did  I  think 
....  Good  heavens,  if  it  was  for  him, 
Father;  fot  his  sake,  she  did  this; 
what  a  wonderful  instance  of  devoted 
disinterested  affection  !  How  mean, 
how  selfish  my  own  feelings  seem  to 
me,  when  I  think  of  her.  Even  now  I 
cannot  help  thinking  of  myself,  of  the 
change  in  my  fate,  what  it  might  lead 
to,  what  it  might  involve  ....  There 
are  so  many  obstacles  besides  the  one 
now  so  suddenly,  so  terribly  removed. 
.  .  .  Poor  girl,  it  would  be  sad  if  she 
had  sacrificed  herself  in  vain.  My  mind 


is  so  confused,  I  scarcely  know  what  I 
think  or  say." 

"  And  you  should  not  try  to  think, 
or  to  resolve,  whilst  you  are  BO  much 
agitated.  The  Bible  says,  'Do  not 
make  haste  in  time  of  clouds.' " 

"But  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  should 
ever  be  calm  again,  and  I  hate  myself 
for  thinking  of  any  thing  to-day  but 
the  death  of  that  poor  prince — he 
hated  me,  but  he  was  the  father  of  my 
child.  My  child !  my  poor  forsaken 
child.  I  should  never  have  left  him. 
I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing.  O ! 
reverend  father,  was  it  not  unnatural, 
horrible,  in  a  mother  to  leave  her 
child !...." 

"  You  were,  in  a  certain  sense,  com- 
pelled to  do  so,  Princess.  Your  life 
was  threatened,  and  it  is  very  prob- 
able that  by  your  flight  you  saved  your 
husband  from  the  commission  of  a 
crime." 

"  True ;  God  bless  you  for  those 
words — for  reminding  me  of  that." 
She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  in  an  excited  manner :  "  I  cannot 
see  or  speak  to  M.  d'Auban  for  some 
days.  I  must  be  alone.  I  want  to  see 
no  one  but  you  and  Therese.  I  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  St.  Agathe  just  now." 

"  You  would,  I  think,  find  it  a  com- 
fort to  remain  here  with  Therese,  and 
near  the  church.  M.  d'Auban  intends, 
immediately  after  the  funeral,  to  go 
and  meet  Simon,  who  must  be  by  this 
time  on  his  way  back  from  the  Arkan- 
sas. He  wishes  to  tell  him  himself  of 
his  daughter's  death." 

"  Simonette  dead  ! "  murmured  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau ;  "  dead  1  a  creature  so 
full  of  life  and  spirits — lying  dead  in 
that  next  hut  1  all  over  for  her,  save 
the  great  realities  of  another  world. 
She  ought  not  to  have  died  in  vain. 
How  passionately  she  must  have  wished 
him  to  be  happy  1  but  perhaps  I  ought 
still  to  go." 

"  Princess,  that  is  a  question   you 


108 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


cannot  decide  in  a  moment.  Time  and 
prayer  must  help  you  to  it." 
"  And  you,  too,  will  help  me  ? " 
"  Certainly,  as  far  as  I  can.  I  will 
beg  of  our  Lord  to  give  you  grace  to 
resolve  aright.  I  feel  very  much  for 
you,  my  child."  These  words  were 
said  most  kindly,  and  went  to  the 
poor  lonely  woman's  heart,  who,  at 
this  turning-point  in  her  life,  had  not  a 
friend  or  a  relative  to  take  counsel 
with,  and  who  dreaded  perplexity  be- 
yond all  other  trials.  There  are  na- 
tures to  whom  it  is  the  only  intolera- 
ble suffering ;  that  have  a  strong  pas- 
sive power  of  endurance  under  inevita- 
ble evils,  but  to  whom  the  responsibility 
of  a  decision  is  perfect  anguish.  In 
struggles  between  duty  and  inclination, 
between  conscience  and  temptation,  the 
lines  are  clearly  denned,  and  each  suc- 
cessive effort  is  a  pledge  of  victory.  It 
is  like  scaling  a  steep  ascent  in  the  free 
air  and  broad  sunshine.  But  where 
conflicting  duties,  as  well  as  conflicting 
feelings,  are  in  question,  and  the  mind 
cannot  resolve  between  them,  the  de- 
pressing effect  on  the  mind  is  akin  to 
that  of  walking  in  a  thick  fog  at  night 
amidst  precipices.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, a  child's  impulse  would  be  to 
sit  down  and  cry.  There  was  some- 
thing childlike  in  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau's  character,  in  spite  of  its  latent 
energy.  It  did  her  good  to  be  pitied. 
Father  Maret's  sympathy  seemed  to 
loosen  the  tight  cord  which  bound  her 
heart,  and  she  sat  down  in  Therese's 
little  garden,  and  after  a  good  fit  of 
weeping,  felt  comforted  and  relieved. 

Over  and  over  again  she  read  and 
muse.d  over  the  details  of  the  Czaro- 
vitch's  death,  which  the  French  Ga- 
zette contained.  A  deep  compassion 
filled  her  soul  for  the  unhappy  man 
who  had  been  her  husband.  Woman- 
like, she  resented  his  wrongs,  and 
shed  tears  over  his  fate.  Whilst  read- 
ing the  eloquent  words  with  which 


the  bishops  of  the  Greek  church  had 
sought  to  obtain  mercy  from  him  at 
his  father's  hands,  she  felt  it  had  been 
wrong  to  despise  them  as  she  had  done 
in  former  days,  and  that  the  Christian 
faith,-  however  obscured,  and  a  Chris- 
tian church,  however  fallen,  can  speak 
in  nobler  accents  and  find  words  of 
greater  power  than  cold  unbelief  can 
ever  utter.  Her  heart  softened  tow- 
ards those  Greek  priests  she  had 
once  hated,  and  she  said,  "  God  bless 
them  for  this  thing  which  they  have 
done." 

In  one  part  of  Therese's  cabin  that 
night  was  reposing  the  lifeless  form  of 
the  girl  who  had  just  died,  and  divided 
from  it  only  by  a  thin  partition  rested 
the  woman  in  whose  fate  so  great  a 
change  had  taken  place.  On  each  pale 
face  the  moon  was  shedding  its  light. 
Cold  and  motionless  was  the  bosom  of 
the  first,  whilst  that  of  the  other  was 
heaving  like  a  child's  that  has  cried 
itself  to  sleep.  For  the  girl  of  seven- 
teen all  was  over  on  earth.  For  the 
widowed  wife  life  was  opening  new 
vistas;  dream  after  dream  filled  her 
brain  with  visions  of  grief  and  joy,  in 
wild  confusion  blent.  Words  akin  to 
those  dreams  fell  from  her  lips — 

And  as  the  swift  thoughts  crossed  her  soul, 

Like  visions  in  a  cloud, 
In  the  still  chamber  of  the  dead 

The  dreamer  spake  aloud. 

Therese  did  not  sleep.  She  was  ac- 
customed to  long  night  watches,  and 
she  knelt  and  prayed  between  the  two 
sleepers.  She  did  not  know  the  secrets 
of  those  two  destinies,  but  she  said  the 
"  De  profundis  "  for  the  one,  the  "  Me- 
morare  "  for  the  other.  "  May  she  rest 
in  peace,"  for  the  dead  ;  "  May  she  live 
for  God,"  for  the  living. 

When  the  morning  dawned,  and  the 
rays  of  the  rising  sun  began  to  light  up 
the  silent  hut,  she  laid  down  by  Mad- 
ame de  Moldau,  and  took  a  few  mo- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


109 


ments'  repose.  Once  she  was  roused 
by  hearing  her  murmur  some  words  of 
the  Bible  ^  they  were  these :  "  Am  I  not 
better  to  thee  than  ten  sons  ? " 

D'Auban  had  attended  the  service  for 
poor  Simonette's  burial.  He  had  stood 
on  one  side  of  the  grave  and  Madame  de 
Moldau  on  the  other.  Their  eyes  had 
not  met  whilst  the  solemn  rites  were 
performed.  It  was  only  when  the 
crowd  had  dispersed — for  settlers  and 
natives  had  attended  in  great  numbers 
the  funeral  of  Simon's  daughter— that 
he  came  up  to  her  where  she  was  still 
standing,  in  the  cemetery,  and  placed 
a  letter  in  her  hands.  She  took  it  in 
silence,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 
He  kissed  it,  and  withdrew  to  prepare 
for  his  departure.  His  letter  was  as 
follows : — 

"MADAME:  I  have  a  few  words  to 
say,  which  I  feel  it  easier  to  write  than 
to  speak.  Your  fate  is  changed,  and 
so  are  my  duties  towards  you.  From 
the  moment  I  became  acquainted  with 
your  name  and  rank,  that  I  knew  you 
to  be  a  princess  and  a  wife,  I  felt  the 
deepest  regret  that  by  my  rashness  and 
presumption  I  had  put  it  out  of  my 
power  to  devote  to  you  as  a  servant  a 
life  which  I  would  fain  have  spent  in 
your  service ;  that  I  had  made  it  im- 
possible for  you  to  accept  of  the  ser- 
vices which,  under  other  circumstances, 
I  might  have  been  permitted  to  render 
to  one  so  infinitely  above  me  in  rank, 
as  well  as  in  merit.  Whilst  you  were 
forced  to  hide  your  name,  whilst  the 
unhappy  prince,  your  husband,  was 
alive,  I  felt  constrained  to  see  you  de- 
part from  hence  alone  and  unprotected, 
and  dared  not  even  offer  to  accompany 
you  to  the  place  you  had  fixed  upon 
for  your  future  residence.  I  will  not 
dwell  upon  what  I  suffered ;  it  was  one 
of  those  efforts  at  passive  endurance 
more  trying  than  the  most  painful 
exertions. 


"Now,  as  I  said  before,  a  great 
change  has  taken  place  in  your  posi- 
tion, and  I  venture  to  lay  at  your  feet 
whatever  God  has  given  me  of  strength 
and  energy,  to  be  spent,  and  if  it  please 
Him,  consumed  in  helping  you  to  reas- 
sume  the  position  which  belongs  to 
your  Imperial  Highness,  both  by  birth 
and  marriage,  and  replacing  you  on 
the  steps  of  the  throne  which  your  son 
is  one  day  to  occupy.  I  have  no  ties 
or  duties  which  bind  me  in  an  absolute 
manner  to  any  spot  on  earth.  If  you 
will  deign,  Princess,  to  accept  me  as 
your  servant ;  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
act  by  you  as  our  poor  friend  would 
have  done  had  he  yet  been  alive,  I  will 
accompany  you  to  Europe,  and  only 
leave  you  the  day  when,  amidst  your 
relatives,  and  the  friends  of  your  youth, 
you  will  stand  once  more  acknowledged 
by  them  all  as  their  lost  princess. 

"  I  implore  you  to  trust  me.  I  dare 
not  promise  to  forget  the  past,  but  I 
can  and  do  promise  that  no  word  shall 
ever  pass  my  lips  unbecoming  a  servant. 
I  would  not  ask  to  live  near  you  at 
Court,  and  be  your  servant  there ;  but 
whilst  trials  and  difficulties  beset  you, 
whilst  you  are  friendless  and  alone, 
grant  me  this  favour.  Let  me  be  your 
servant.  I  feel  nearly  as  old  as  poor 
M.  de  Chambelle.  The  last  few  months 
have  seemed  to  add  many  years  to  my 
age.  Let  me  be  your  guardian.  I 
could  not  brook  a  refusal.  It  would 
wound  me  to  the  heart.  I  know  there 
will  be  many  difficulties  to  overcome, 
and  a  long  time  may  elapse  before  your 
identity  is  acknowledged,  but  that  it 
will  be  so  at  last  I  feel  no  doubt  of; 
and  if  it  is  granted  to  me  to  see  you 
happy — I  was  going  to  say  I  could  be 
happy  to  part  with  you  for  ever,  but  I 
cannot,  dare  not,  write  such  an  untruth. 
I  do  not  want  to  be  happy  myself;  I 
want  to  see  you  happy.  That  I  can  and 
do  say  from  the  depths  of  my  heart. 
Forgive  me,  Princess,  if  this  letter  ends 


110 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


in  a  less  formal  manner  than  it  began. 
It  need  not  make  you  distrust  the  prom- 
ise I  have  made.  I  have  not  courage 
to  write  it  over  again,  so  I  send  it  just 
as  it  is,  with  the  most  fervent  blessings 
and  prayers  that  you  may  indeed  be 
happy,  and  that  I  may  help  you  to  be 
so. 

"  Your  Imperial  Highness's 
"  Devoted  servant, 
"  HENRI 


This  letter  had  been  written  the 
night  before  it  was  given  to  Madame 
de  Moldau.  Perhaps  the  tone  of  it 
might  have  been  a  little  different  had 
it  been  composed  after  the  brief  meet- 
ing in  the  cemetery  ;  for  as  he  looked 
at  her,  as  he  kissed  her  hand,  as  he  felt 
its  silent  pressure,  hope,  in  spite  of 
•  himself,  sprung  up  in  his  heart  and 
made  it  bound.  Princess  as  she  was, 
the  woman  he  loved  was  now  free. 
Men's  customs,  their  habits,  perhaps 
their  laws,  stood  between  him  and  her, 
but  not  God's  laws,  not  His  command- 
ments. The  words  she  had  once  said 
came  back  to  his  mind:  "It  is  the 
wedded  wife,  not  the  Imperial  High- 
ness, who  rejected  your  love."  And  as 
he  gazed  at  the  solitary  beautiful  land- 
scape, at  the  boundless  plain  and  far- 
stretching  forests  on  every  side,  he 
thought  how  insignificant  were  the 
thoughts  of  men  in  that  solitude,  how 
impotent  their  judgments.  If  she 
should  choose  to  abandon  altogether 
the  old  world  and  accept  a  new  destiny 
in  the  land  where  their  lot  was  now 
cast,  might  they  not  now,  with  safe 
consciences  and  pure  hearts,  be  all  in 
all  to  each  other  !  But  he  had  resolu- 
tion enough  to  give  her  the  letter  he 
had  written  under  a  stern  sense  of  duty, 
and  not  to  add  a  word  to  diminish  its 
effect.  He  went  on  his  way  through 
the  forests  and  the  deserts,  and  en- 
countered the  usual  difficulties  belong- 
ing to  such  journeys.  But  bodily 


exercise  relieves  activity  of  mind,  and 
he  was  glad  to  have  something  to  direct 
his  thoughts  from  their  too  'absorbing 
preoccupation.  Six  days  after  his 
departure  he  met  Simon,  and  went 
through  the  painful  task  of  breaking 
to  him  his  daughter's  death.  The 
bargeman  was  much  afflicted  by  this 
sudden  blow,  but  he  did  not  care  quite 
so  much  for  his  child  since  she  had 
ceased  to  be  his  companion  and  play- 
thing. D'Auban  gave  him  a  sum  of 
money  in  recompense  for  Simonette's 
services  to  Madame  de  Moldau,  think- 
ing at  the  same  time  how  little  money 
could  repay  what  the  poor  girl  had 
done  for  them.  Simon  was  not  indeed 
consoled,  but  somewhat  cheered,  by 
the  sight  of  the  gold;  for  the  ruling 
passion  is  strong  in  grief  as  well  as  in 
death.  Then  d'Auban  retraced  his 
steps,  and  stopped  that  night  at  the 
little  Mission  of  St.  Louis.  He  reached 
it  just  as  the  evening  service  was  going 
on.  The  scene  was  precisely  similar  to 
the  one  so  beautifully  described  in 
Longfellow's  poem : 

Behind  a  spur  of  the  mountains, 

Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  was  heard  a 
murmur  of  voices, 

And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the 
bank  of  a  river, 

Rose  the  tents  of  the  Christians— the  tents 
of  the  Jesuits'  mission. 

Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  village, 

Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  children  j 
a  crucifix,  fastened 

High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  over- 
shadowed by  grape  vines, 

Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multi- 
tude kneeling  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  chapel — aloft,  through 
the  intricate  arches 

Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their 
vespers, 

Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and 
sighs  of  its  branches. 

The  traveller  knelt  down  and  joined 
in  the  devotions  of  the  Indian  congrega- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


Ill 


tion,  and  after  they  were  ended  intro- 
duced himself  to  the  priest,  who  invited 
him  to  spend  the  night  in  his  hut.  The 
pleasure  of  seeing  a  Frenchman,  and 
conversing  in  his  native  language— a 
rare  one  in  that  locality,  beamed  in 
the  face  of  the  good  father.  "  I  have 
been  very  fortunate  this  week,"  he 
said ;  "  for  several  months  past  I  had 
had  no  visitors,  but  on  Tuesday  quite 
a  large  party  of  travellers,  including 
two  European  ladies,  halted  here  on 
their  way  to  Montreal.  "We  had  some 
difficulty  in  putting  them  all  up  for 
the  night.  I  managed  to  accommodate 
the  two  priests  and  one  of  the  gentle- 
men, the  others  slept  in  the  school- 
master's hut,  and  the  two  ladies  in  the 
schoolroom.  It  was  luckily  fine  weath- 
er, and  they  were  not  very  uncom- 
fortable, and  I  had  not  had  such  a 
treat  for  a  long  time.  Three  masses 
were  said  the  next  morning  in  our  poor 
little  chapel.  It  was  the  first  time 
such  a  thing  had  happened.  And  they 
were  all  such  kind  and  pleasant  peo- 
ple." 

Little  did  the  good  father  guess,  as 
he  good-humou redly  talked  on  in  this 
manner,  what  anguish  he  was  causing 
his  guest,  who,  in  a  voice  which  any 
one  who  had  known  him  would  have 
thought  strangely  altered,  inquired  the 
names  of  these  travellers. 

"  Father  Poisson  and  Father  Roussel, 
and  M.  and  Madame  Latour,  and  M. 
Macon.  I  did  not  catch  the  name  of 
the  other  lady." 

"Was  she  tall  and  fair?" 

"Yes,  I  should  say  so — tall,  cer- 
tainly." 

"  Young  and  pale  ? " 

"  Rather  pale,  I  think ;  but  about 
ladies'  ages  I  never  know — yes,  I 
suppose  she  was  quite  young.  Are 
you  acquainted  with  them,  my  dear 
sir?" 

"I  know  some  of  them  by  name," 
d'Auban  answered,  pushing  away  the 


dish  which  had  been  set  before  him ; 
he  could  not  have  swallowed  a  mor- 
sel. There  are  circumstances  which 
heighten  singularly  the  acutencss  of 
certain  trials.  He  knew  that  he  might 
still  have  to  part  from  Madame  de 
Moldau,  though  during  the  last  few 
days  hope  had  been  gradually  gam- 
ing ground  in  his  mind;  but  he  had 
never  anticipated  that  such  a  separation 
would  take  place  in  an  unexpected  and 
abrupt  manner.  That  she  should  leave 
St.  Agathe  during  his  absence,  and 
that  he  should  thus  lose  the  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  a  few  parting  words 
to  her,  was  more  than  he  could  endure ; 
it  almost  upset  his  fortitude.  The 
Father  noticed  his  paleness  and  want 
of  appetite,  and  the  way  in  which  he 
unconsciously  pressed  his  hand  against 
his  temples,  as  if  to  still  their  throbbing. 
"  I  am  sure  you  have  a  bad  headache," 
he  kindly  said;  "come  out  into  the 
air  and  take  a  stroll — it  is  a  beautiful 
night." 

D'Auban  accepted  the  proposal,  for 
the  hut  was  very  close.  The  fresh  air 
did  him  good.  He  took  off  his  hat, 
to  let  it  blow  on  his  forehead.  He 
tried  to  think  that  the  second  lady 
of  the  party  might  not,  after  all, 
be  Madame  de  Moldau,  though  the 
others  were  the  people  she  was  to 
travel  with;  and  only  one  lady  had 
been  mentioned  by  Father  Maret's  cor- 
respondent. 

As  they  passed  a  small  cluster  of 
cabins  the  priest  pointed  to  one  of 
them,  and  said,  "  Ah !  there  is  the 
bedroom  of  our  ladies.  They  had  to 
sleep  on  mats  with  a  bundle  of  moss 
for  a  pillow." 

The  door  was  open.  D'Auban  stood 
on  the  threshold,  and  gazing  into  it, 
thought :  "  Did  she  indeed  sleep  in 
this  spot  two  days  ago,  worn  out  by 
fatigue  and  sorrow,  or  did  she  lie 
awake  thinking  of  the  past  and  of 
the  future,  without  a  friend  near  her  ? 


112 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


Or  is  she  now  glad  to  escape  from  that 
love  I  could  not  conceal,  and  which 
perhaps  frightens  her  away  ?  Perhaps 
she  is  seeking  other  assistance  than 
mine  to  recover  her  position.  She  will 
not,  I  suppose,  accept  the  services  of 
one  who  has  dared  to  love  her.  It 
would  not  have  been  wrong,  however, 
to  wait  for  my  return.  .  .  .  She 
might  have  spared  me  this  suffering." 
Absorbed  in  these  musings  he  was  for- 
getting his  companion,  and  was  only 
roused  by  hearing  him  exclaim,  "  Ah  ! 
what  have  we  here  !  See,  one  of  those 
poor  ladies  has  dropped  her  neck- 
handkerchief.  It  will  be  no  easy  mat- 
ter to  restore  it,  seeing  we  have  no 
postal  service  in  this  part  of  the 
world ! "  D'Auban  till  that  moment 
had  had  a  lingering  hope  that  Madame 
de  Moldau  had  not  after  all  been  one 
of  the  ladies  of  that  party ;  but  now 
he  could  no  longer  have  a  doubt  on  the 
subj  ect.  The  blue  and  black  silk  hand- 
kerchief in  the  hands  of  the  priest  was 
the  very  one  he  had  often  and  often 
seen  round  her  neck.  He  mechanically 
stretched  out  his  hand  for  it.  It  was 
one  of  those  little  things  connected 
with  the  remembrance  of  past  happi- 
ness which  affect  the  heart  so  deeply. 

When  the  evenings  grew  chilly  after 
hot  sunny  days,  or  when  in  the  boat  or 
the  sledge  on  bright  frosty  nights,  he 
used  to  remind  her  to  tie  her  handker- 
chief round  her  throat — her  white, 
slender,  swan-like  throat.  It  had  a 
trick  of  slipping  off.  He  saw  her  in 
fancy  smiling  as  she  was  wont  to  do, 
on  these  occasions.  So  vivid  was  this 
recollection  that  a  deep  sigh  burst  from 
him. 

"  You  are  suffering  very  much ;  I  am 
certain  of  it,"  said  his  companion; 
"you  must  let  me  prescribe  for  you; 
like  most  missionaries,  I  am  somewhat 
of  a  physician." 

D'Auban  seized  his  hand. 

«"  I  am  not  ill,  my  dear  father,  but  it 


is  true  I  am  suffering.  Pray  for  me,  and 
forgive  my  strange  and  ungracious  con- 
duct." 

"  Would  it  be  a  comfort  to  you  to 
tell  me  your  grief  ? " 

"  I  could  not  speak  of  it  without 
relating  too  long  a  story  for  me  to  tell 
or  for  you  to  hear  to-night.  But  thus 
much  I  will  say :  missing  those  travel- 
lers who  were  here  three  days  ago  has 
been  a  terrible  blow  to  me.  One  of 
them,  the  one  to  whom  this  hand- 
kerchief belonged,  is  very  dear  to  me ; 
and  I  shall  probably  never  see  her 
again." 

"  But  could  you  not  overtake  them, 
my  dear  friend  ?  women  cannot  travel 
fast." 

"  Do  you  know  what  road  they  were 
to  take?" 

"  The  usual  one  to  Canada ;  but,  to 
be  sure,  in  a  country  like  this  it  would 
be  ten  chances  to  one  that  you  hit  on 
the  same  track." 

This  was  obvious ;  and  d'Auban,  who 
for  one  minute  had  been  tempted  to 
catch  at  the  suggestion,  remembered 
that  there  were  other  reasons  against 
it.  His  absence  from  the  concessions 
even  for  a  week  had  been  a  risk,  and  a 
prolonged  one  might  affect  not  only 
his  own  but  likewise  Madame  de  Mol- 
dau's  interests ;  and  she  might  be  more 
than  ever  in  want  of  means,  if  she  in- 
tended to  return  to  Europe.  It  might 
also  have  been  her  wish  by  this  sudden 
departure  to  avoid  the  pain  or  the 
embarrassment  of  a  parting  inter- 
view. 

Observing  his  agitation,  the  priest 
said,  in  a  grave  and  compassionate  man- 
ner, "  Perhaps  you  ought  not  to  follow 
her?" 

"  No,  father ;  it  would  not  be  wrong, 
but  it  would  be  madness.  I  must,  on 
the  contrary,  return  as  speedily  as  pos- 
sible to  my  habitation.  If  you  have 
any  thing  to  write  to  Father  Maret 
will  take  charge  of  it."  . 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


113 


"You  know  him,  then?"  said  the 
priest,  with  a  look  of  pleasure. 

"  He  is  my  most  intimate  friend." 

"  Ah !  well,  God  bless  you.  It  is  a 
good  thing  in  sorrow  to  have  a  friend, 
and  a  friend  like  him.  I  will  spend 
the  night  in  writing,  and  then  you  can 
use  my  bed ;  that  will  suit  us  both." 

D'Auban  remonstrated  against  this 
arrangement,  but  the  good  missionary 
insisted  on  carrying  it  out.  He  took  a 
few  hours'  broken  and  restless  sleep  on 
the  poor  couch,  whilst  his  host  sat 
writing  on  an  old  trunk,  which  served 
at  once  as  a  chest  and  a  table. 

The  first  sight  of  St.  Agathe  was 
almost  more  than  d'Auban  could  bear. 
He  had,  during  his  homeward  journey, 
schooled  himself  to  endure  with  forti- 
tude his  return  to  the  place  which  had 
been  her  abode,  and  in  which  every 
object  was  so  intimately  connected  with 
her  presence,  that  he  could  hardly  pic- 
ture it  to  himself  without  her.  But 
when,  as  he  came  out  from  the  forest 
into  the  glade,  it  rose  before  him  in  all 
its  cheerful  beauty,  so  striking  amidst 
the  grand  and  gloomy  scenery  around 
it,  his  courage  almost  failed.  But  he 
determined  to  master  the  pain  and  to 
look  that  suffering  in  the  face.  Riding 
up  to  the  door  he  gazed  on  the  park, 
the  verandah,  the  window  of  her  room, 
and  then  breathing  a  deep  sigh,  turned 
away,  saying  to  himself,  "  The  worst  is 
over  now,"  and  rode  on  to  his  own 
house.  When  he  entered,  he  was  look- 
ing so  worn  and  ill,  that  his  servant 
Antoine  was  quite  frightened.  He 
brought  him  some  wine,  and  anxiously 
asked  him  if  he  had  not  met  with  some 
accident.  He  said  no;  and  asked  if 
any  letter  had  arrived  during  his  ab- 
sence. 

"  No,  not  one,  sir,"  Antoine  answered. 

D'Auban  thought  Madame  de  Moldau 

would  at  least  have  written  to  him.    A 

feeling  of  resentment  rose  in  his  breast, 

which  made  him  better  able  to  conceal 

8 


his  feelings.  He  would  not  for  the 
world  have  uttered  her  name,  though 
he  would  have  wished  to  know  the 
exact  day  on  which  she  had  left. 
Wounded  pride  is  a  powerful  stimu- 
lant ;  it  gives  a  false  kind  of  strength 
even  whilst  it  embitters  a  wound. 

He  sent  for  his  overseer  and  looked 
over  his  accounts.  Both  the  overseer 
and  Antoine  observed  the  burning  heat 
of  his  hands,  and  that  he  often  shivered 
that  evening.  His  face  was  alternately 
pale  and  flushed.  They  felt  anxious 
about  him,  and  well  they  might ;  for 
he  had  caught  the  fever  of  the  country 
whilst  taking  a  few  hours'  rest  in  a  hut 
by  the  river-side  on  the  last  day  of  his 
journey.  The  sufferings  he  had  gone 
through  had  predisposed  him  to  it. 
In  a  few  hours  he  was  so  ill  that  Father 
Maret  was  sent  for.  For  two  or  three 
days  he  was  alarmingly  ill ;  and  it  was 
evident  that  he  was  suffering  in  mind 
as  well  as  in  body.  There  was  in  his 
character — and  it  was  perhaps  the  only 
fault  that  others  noticed  in  him — a 
rigidity  which  made  him  take  extreme 
resolutions,  and  act  up  to  them  with  a 
firmness  bordering  on  obstinacy.  From 
the  moment  he  found  that  Madame  de 
Moldau  had  left  St.  Agathe  he  deter- 
mined to  suppress  in  himself,  by  a  strong 
effort  of  the  will,  all  feelings  more  ten- 
der or  affectionate  than  those  which  it 
was  befitting  for  him  to  entertain  tow- 
ards a  person  in  her  position.  He  would 
work  for  her  and  watch  over  her  inter- 
ests more  closely  than  ever.  If  she 
should  ever  call  him  to  her  assistance 
he  would  obey  her  summons  and  never 
utter  a  word  of  complaint ;  but,  except 
when  business  made  it  necessary,  he 
would  never  pronounce  her  name  or 
allude  to  their  former  intimacy.  And 
accordingly  when  Father  Maret  visited 
him  on  his  sick  bed  he  did  not  allude 
to  her  departure,  and  abruptly  changed 
the  subject  whenever  he  seemed  about 
to  speak  of  her.  At  the  end  of  the 


114 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


fourth  day  the  fever  abated,  but  it 
promised  to  take  an  intermittent  form, 
and  in  the  intervals  his  weakness  was 
great. 

Antoine  watched  him  most  carefully, 
and  when  Therese  offered  to  come  and 
nurse  him,  he  somewhat  scornfully  re- 
jected her  proposal.  "  These  women," 
he  said  one  evening  to  his  master,  "  are 
always  fancying  that  nobody  can  take 
care  of  sick  people  but  themselves. 
And  they  are  often  dreadfully  in  the 
way.  Ministering  angels  I  have  heard 
them  called;  very  troublesome  angels 
they  sometimes  are.  The  second  even- 
ing after  Monsieur  came  home,  and 
when  he  was  so  ill,  and  I  wanted  to 
keep  the  house  quiet,  there  was  Madame 
de  Moldau  coming  at  the  door  and 
wanting  every  minute  to  know.  .  .  ." 

D'Auban  started  up,  the  blood  rush- 
ing violently  in  his  face. 

"  What  did  you  say  ? "  he  asked  in  a 
voice,  the  agitation  of  which  made  it 
sound  fierce.  "Has  not  Madame  de 
Moldau  left  St.  Agathe  ? " 

"Oh  dear,  no!  She  was  here  this 
morning  to  hear  how  Monsieur  was,  and 
if  we  wanted  any  thing.  I  did  not  mean 
to  speak  unkindly  of  her,  poor  lady ! 
She  did  not  make  much  disturbance 
after  all,  and  took  off  her  shoes  not  to 
make  a  noise  on  the  boards." 

A  joy  too  great,  too  deep  for  words, 
filled  the  heart  which  had  so  much 
suffered.  It  was  visible  on  the  face, 
audible  in  the  voice  of  the  sick  man. 
Antoine  noticed  the  change.  He  had 
some  vague  idea  of  what  was  going  on 
in  his  master's  mind.  Perhaps  his  men- 
tion of  the  Lady  of  St.  Agathe  had  not 
been  quite  accidental.  He  went  on 
brushing  a  coat  with  his  face  averted 
from  him. 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised,"  he  said, 
"  if  she  were  to  be  here  again  this  after- 
noon. I  told  her  we  had  no  more  lem- 
ons, and  she  said  she  would  bring  or 
send  some.  As  Monsieur  is  up  to-day, 


perhaps  he  would  like  to  see  Madame, 
if  she  comes  herself  with  them  ? " 

"Of  course,  if  ...  if  she  should 
wish.  .  .  But  I  ought  to  go  myself  to 
St.  Agathe.  I  think  I  could." 

"  You !  oh,  that's  a  good  joke !  Fa- 
ther Maret  charged  me  not  to  let  you 
stir  out  of  the  house  to-day.  To- 
morrow, perhaps,  you  may  take  a  little 
walk." 

From  the  window  near  which  he  was 
sitting,  in  less  than  an  hour,  d'Auban 
saw  Madame  de  Moldau  crossing  the 
glade,  and  approaching  his  house.  It 
was  a  moment  of  unspeakable  happi- 
ness. She  was  still  all  she  had  ever 
been  to  him.  She  had  not  spumed  his 
offers,  or  sought  other  protection  than 
his.  This  was  enough.  He  did  not  at 
that  moment  care  for  any  thing  else. 
Their  eyes  met  as  she  passed  under  the 
window,  and  in  another  moment  she 
was  in  the  room. 

"  Sit  down,  dear  Monsieur  d'Auban," 
were  her  first  words,  as  he  rose  to  greet 
her.  "  Sit  down,  or  I  Khali  go  away." 

"  No  !  don't  go  away,"  he  said,  sink- 
ing back  into  the  arm-chair,  for  he  had 
not  strength  enough  to  stand.  "For 
some  days  I  thought  you  were  gone — 
gone  for  ever ! " 

"Did  you?     Owhy?" 

He  drew  her  silk  handkerchief  from 
his  bosom.  "  I  found  this  in  a  hut  a 
hundred  miles  off,  where  the  people 
you  were  to  have  travelled  with  slept  a 
few  nights  ago.  And  there  was  a  lady 
with  them  besides  Madame  Latour.  .  ." 

"  O,  Monsieur  d'Auban,  how  grieved 
I  am  about  that  handkerchief.  It  must, 
indeed,  have  misled  you.  What  a 
strange  coincidence  that  you  should 
have  found  it !  I  gave  it  to  Made- 
moiselle La  Marche ;  she  was  the  sec- 
ond lady  of  the  party.  They  all  stopped 
here  for  a  day.  Had  it  been  a  fortnight 
ago  I  should  now  have  been  with 
them." 

"What  made  me  so  miserable  was 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


115 


the  thought  that  you  did  not  trust  me. 
That  you  rejected  my  offer  of  accom- 
panying you  to  Europe." 

"  I  am  not  going  back  to  Europe," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But,  ought  you  not  ?  "  he  answered, 
trying  to  speak  calmly.  "  Ought  you 
i  not  to  resume  your  rank  and  your  posi- 
tion— to  return  to  your  son  ?  Is  it  not, 
perhaps,  your  duty  to  do  so  ? "  he  asked, 
with  a  beating  heart. 

"  As  to  rank  and  position,  to  forego 
them  for  ever  would  be  my  greatest 
desire.  But  it  would  no  doubt  be  my 
duty  to  return  to  my  poor  childrif  I 
could  do  so — even  at  the  cost  of  the 
greatest  misery  to  myself— -even  though 
convinced  that  the  same  heartless  eti- 
quette which  separated  me  from  him 
as  an  infant  would  still  keep  us  apart 
;  if  I  went  back.  It  would  certainly 
have  been  right  to  make  the  attempt, 
and  if  spurned  and  rejected  by  my  own 
kindred.  .  .  ."  She  stopped  and  held 
out  her  hand  to  him.  "  You  would  not 
i  have  forsaken  me." 

"Never!  as  long  as  I  live.  If  you 
were  on  a  throne  you  would  never  see 
me,  but  you  would  know  there  was  a 
faithful  heart  near  you ;  and  if  driven 
from  it,  O  how  gladly  would  it  wel- 
come you ! " 

"I  know  it — I  never  doubted  it — 
and  if  it  had  been  possible,  under  your 
I  protection,  I  would  have  tried  to  make 
f  my  way  to  Russia,  and  to  take  my 
f  place  again  near  my  son.    But  I  forget 
;if  I  told  you  that,  before   I  left  St. 
Petersburgh,  the  Comtesse  de  Konigs- 
mark  made  me  solemnly  promise  that, 
as  long  as  the  Czar  lived,  I  should  not 
reveal  to  any  one  the  secret  of  my  ex- 
istence.    She  knew  that  the  emperor, 
even  if  he  chose  to  acknowledge  and 
receive  me,  which  is  doubtful,  would 
never  forgive  those  who  had  deceived 
him,  even  though  it  was  to  save  my 
life.    My  attendants  especially  would 
be  liable  to  his  vengeance.     She  had 


interests  I  know  which  made  her  very 
fearful  of  incurring  his  displeasure.  It 
would  not,  at  all  events,  be  possible 
for  me  to  act  in  this  matter  without 
her  knowledge  and  approval.  I  have 
written  to  her,  and  must  be  guided  by 
her  answer.  I  may  hear  from  her  any 
day.  I  cannot  but  think  she  will  write 
to  me  at  such  a  decisive  moment." 

"And,  in  the  mean  time,  you  will 
stay  here  ? " 

"Yes.      In  any  case  till  I  get  her 
letter." 

"  And  if  you  decide  not  to  return  to 
Europe,  what  will  you  do  ? " 

She  coloured  deeply.  "  Had  we  not 
better  put  off  speaking  of  that  till  I  see 
my  way  clearly  before  me  ?  I  need  not 
tell  you.  .  ."  "  Yes,"  he  exclaimed, 
"I  need  that  you  should  tell  me,  I 
need  to  know  that,  if  we  part  .  .  ." 
"  If  we  part,  M.  d'Auban,  I  shall  be 
making  the  greatest  sacrifice  a  woman 
can  make  to  duty  and  to  her  child." 
This  was  said  with  an  emotion  which 
could  leave  no  doubt  in  his  mind  as  to 
the  nature  and  strength  of  her  feelings 
towards  him.  From  that  moment  per- 
fect confidence  was  established  between 
them.  Each  tried  to  keep  up  the  other's 
courage.  Both  looked  with  anxiety 
for  the  arrival  of  the  expected  letters. 
One  packet  arrived,  but  it  had  been 
delayed  on  its  way,  and  contained 
nothing  of  particular  interest.  At  last, 
one  afternoon,  as  they  were  busy  plant- 
ing some  creepers  round  the  stump  of 
an  old  tree,  each  thinking,  without 
saying  it,  that  they  might  not  stay  to 
see  them  grow,  a  boatman  came  up  to 
the  house,  and  delivered  a  letter  into 
Madame  de  Moldau's  hand.  She  sat 
down  and  broke  the  seals  and  untied 
the  strings  with  a  nervous  trepidation 
which  made  her  long  about  it.  He 
continued  to  prune  the  newly-planted 
shoots  in  an  unsparing  manner.  He 
did  not  venture  to  watch  her  face,  but 
the  sound  of  a  sob  made  him  turn 


116 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


round.      She    was    crying    very   bit- 
terly. 

"  We  are  to  part,"  lie  thought. 

"What  is  it,  princess?"  he  said; 
"any  thing  is  better  than  suspense." 

"  My  poor  child  !  my  boy ! "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"What — what  has  happened  to 
him?" 

"  He  is  set  aside ;  thrust  out  of  the 
succession.  The  Empress  Catherine's 
son  named  heir  to  the  crown.  Poor 
fatherless  forsaken  child !  forsaken  on 
the  steps  of  a  throne,  like  a  beggar's 
infant  on  a  doorway !  O  why,  why  did 
I  leave  him !  my  little  Peter — my  son." 

D'Auban,  though  he  could  not  forget 
his  own  interest  in  the  contents  of  the 
letter,  checked  his  anxiety,  and  only 
expressed  sympathy  in  her  sorrow. 

In  a  moment  she  took  up  the  letter 
again,  and  said:  "I  am  ashamed  of 
caring  so  much  for  my  son's  exclusion 
from  the  throne.  Have  I  not  often  and 
often  wished  he  had  not  been  born  to 
reign?  Would  not  I  give  the  world 
to  withdraw  him  from  the  court? 
Would  that  they  would  let  me  have 
him !  Who  cares  for  him  now  ?  Per- 
haps I  might  go  one  day  and  steal  him 
out  of  their  hands,  and  carry  him  off 
to  this  desert,  and  bring  him  up  in  my 
own  faith.  But  for  the  present  the 
Comtesse  de  Konigsmark  insists  on  the 
fulfilment  of  my  promise.  This  is  what 
she  says,  M.  d'Auban.  'Princess,  if 
you  should  come  forward  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  seek  to  establish  your  posi- 
tion as  the  widow  of  the  late  prince, 
and  the  guardian  of  your  son,  you  will 
infallibly  be  treated  as  an  impostor, 
and  your  claims  set  aside.  None  of 
those  who  assisted  in  your  escape  could 
venture  to  give  their  testimony  to  the 
truth  of  your  assertions.  Your  reap- 
pearance at  this  time  would  involve 
your  own  family  in  difficulties  with  the 
Czar,  and  would  expose  those  who 
saved  you  in  the  hour  of  danger  to  the 


greatest  danger  themselves.  It  might 
even  be  fatal  to  your  son.  As  long  as 
there  is  no  one  to  resent  his  wrongs  or 
advocate  his  cause,  he  is  safe  in  the 
hands  of  the  emperor.  The  empress 
is  very  kind  to  him  now,  but  who 
knows  what  would  be  the  consequences 
if  she  thought  you  were  alive  and  in- 
triguing against  her  own  son.  It  grieves 
me  deeply  to  have  to  write  it,  but  for 
the  sake  of  all  concerned,  I  feel  bound 
to  claim  the  fulfilment  of  your  promise, 
solemnly  given  at  the  moment  of  your 
departure ;  and  I  feel  assured  that  in 
doing  so  I  am  serving  your  own  in- 
terest and  those  of  your  son.  The 
day  may  come  when,  in  spite  of  the 
late  decree,  he  will  ascend  the  imperial 
throne.  Then,  perhaps,  you  may  safely 
return  to  Europe ;  but  you  know  Rus- 
sia too  well  not  to  be  aware  of  the 
dangers  which  threaten  those  nearest 
to  the  throne,  when  not  too  helpless  to 
be  feared.'  Nothing  can  be  clearer.  I 
am  tied  hand  and  foot — cast  off — never 
to  see  my  child  again ;  for  who  would 
know  me  again  years  hence  ?  who 
would  believe  me  then  ?  Oh,  my  boy, 
has  it  indeed  come  to  this!"  These 
words,  and  the  burst  of  grief  which 
accompanied  them,  painfully  affected 
d'Auban.  She  saw  it  in  his  face,  and 
exclaimed  :  "  Do  not  mistake  me ;  you 
cannot  guess,  you  do  not  understand, 
what  I  feel.  It  is  very  strange — very 
inconsistent." 

"  God  knows,  Princess,  I  do  not  won- 
der at  your  grief.  What  can  I  be  to 
you  in  comparison  with  your  child  ? 
How  can  I  claim  an  equal  place  in  your 
heart?" 

"Equal!  Oh,  M.  d'Auban,  do  not 
you  see,  do  not  you  understand  that  I 
love  you  a  thousand  times  better  than 
that  poor  child,  and  that  I  hate  myself 
for  it?" 

He  silently  pressed  her  hand,  and 
when  both  had  grown  calm  they  parted 
for  that  day ;  he  to  attend  to  business, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


117 


and  she  to  walk  to  the  village,  where 
she  had  a  long  interview  with  Father 
Maret.  He  listened  patiently  to  the 
outpourings  of  her  doubts,  her  mis- 
givings and  self-accusations;  to  the 
inconsistencies  of  a  loving  heart  and 
a  sensitive  conscience.  It  was  a 
work  of  patience,  for  he  perfectly 
well  knew  how  it  would  end ;  and 
feeling  certain  that  she  would  mar- 
ry d'Auban  at  last,  and  not  seeing  any 
thing  wrong  in  her  doing  so,  he  gave 
it  as  his  opinion  that  she  had  better 
not  torment  herself  and  him  by  pro- 
longed hesitation,  but  agree  to  join 
their  hearts,  their  hands,  and  their  plan- 
tations ;  and  from  that  hour  to  the  one 
in  which  death  would  part  them,  do  as 
much  good  together  as  they  could  in 
the  New  World,  or  wherever  else  the 
providence  of  God  called  them. 

A  few  weeks    *ater,  in  the  church 
of  the  Mission,  Charlotte  of  Brunswick 


was  married  to  Henri  d'Auban.  She 
had  required  from  him  a  promise,  which 
he  willingly  gave,  that  if  the  day  should 
ever  come  when  she  could  approach  her 
child  without  breaking  her  promise, 
that  he  would  not  prevent,  but  on  the 
contrary  assist  her  to  do  so.  As  the 
husband  and  wife  came  out  of  the 
church  they  stopped  a  moment  to  pray 
at  M.  de  Chambelle's  tomb.  As  they 
were  leaving  it,  she  said,  "Monsieur 
d'Auban,  you  have  kept  your  promise 
to  him." 

"  Ah  !  but  what  would  the  good  old 
man  have  thought  of  such  a  mesal- 
liance, Madame  ? "  d'Auban  answered. 

"I  would  have  told  him,"  she  re- 
plied, smiling  also,  but  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  "  that  the  princess  lies  buried 
in  the  imperial  vault  at  Moscow,  tfnd 
that  she  whom  you  have  married  has 
neither  rank  nor  name — nothing  but  a 
woman's  grateful  heart." 


PART  II. 


OHAPTEK    I. 


Sweet  was  the  hermitage 
Of  this  unploughed,  untrodden  shore, 
Like  birds,  all  joyous  from  their  cage, 
For  man's  neglect  we  loved  it  more. 
And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 
To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear, 
Whilst  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 
"Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 

And  I,  pursued  by  moonless  skies, 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 


Campbett. 


0  she  walks  on  the  verandah, 
And  she  laughs  out  of  the  door, 
And  she  dances  like  the  sunshine 
Across  the  parlour  floor. 
Her  little  feet  they  patter, 
Like  the  rain  upon  the  flowers, 
And  her  laugh  is  like  sweet  water, 
Through  all  the  summer  hours. 


Negro  Melody. 


A  FEW  brief  years  will  suffice  to 
record  the  history  of  Henri  d'Auban 
and  his  wife,  during  the  eventful  years 
which  followed  their  marriage.  Nov- 
elists are  sometimes  reproached  with 
dwelling  qn  the  melancholy  .side  of 
life,  of  not  presenting  often  enough  to 
their  readers  pictures  of  happiness,  such 
as  exists  in  this  world  even  in  the  midst 
of  all  its  sin  and  suffering.  But  is  it 
not  the  same  with  history  ?  How  sel- 
dom do  its  pages  carry  us  through 
bright  and  smiling  scenes  ?  How  few 
of  them  record  aught  else  but  crime  or 
sorrow?  The  truth  is  that  there  is 
very  little  to  relate  about  happy  peo- 
ple. A  joyous  face  tells  its  own  story ; 
a  peaceful  heart  has  no  secrets.  If 
everybody  was  good  and  happy,  writ- 


ers 


of   fiction  might  lay  aside  their 
pens. 

She,  who  though  doomed  to  death 
had  been  so  strangely  fated  not  to  die, 
and  who  had  passed  as  it  were  through 
the  grave  into  a  new  world,  sometimes 
felt  almost  tempted  to  believe  that  the 
whole  of  her  past  life  was  a  dream. 
That  the  deserted,  hated,  and  miserable 
princess  of  former  days  could  be  the 
same  person  who — now,  with  a  light 
step  and  a  gay  heart,  trod  the  sunny 
prairies  of  the  New  World  and  the 
mossy  carpets  of  its  wide  forests,  as  if 
the  blue  sky  over  head  was  the  dome 
of  a  vast  temple,  in  which  the  varying 
seasons  kept  festival  with  incense- 
breathing  flowers,  and  winds  whisper- 
ing songs  of  praise,  seemed  indeed 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


119 


incredible  to  herself,  as  it  would  have 
been  to  any  one  who  had  looked  on 
this  picture  and  on  that.  When  once 
she  had  fully  entered  into  the  full  spirit 
of  a  settler's  life,  its  very  freedom  from 
conventional  trammels  was  as  agreeable 
to  her  as  the  boundless  air  to  the  bird 
set  free,  or  the  sight  of  the  wide  ocean 
to  the  liberated  captive.  She  had  never 
enjoyed  till  then  a  sense  of  liberty. 
The  gentle  formalities  of  her  father's 
dull  court  had  preceded  the  miserable 
slavery  of  her  wedded  life,  and  that 
had  been  followed  again  by  all  the  suf- 
ferings of  her  flight,  and  of  her  arrival 
in  America. 

Now  it  seemed  as  if  for  the  first  time 
sunshine  was  flooding  her  soul.  In 
the  new  atmosphere  of  faith  and  love 
which  surrounded  her,  every  faculty 
was  developed,  and.  every  aspiration 
fulfilled.  No  human  happiness  is,  how- 
ever, perfect.  There  were  moments 
when  the  very  blessings  she  enjoyed 
called  up  a  sharp  pain.  When  her  eyes 
had  been  fixed  awhile  on  her  husband's 
face,  or  on  the  various  beauties  of  her 
home,  she  would  suddenly  turn  them 
away,  and  appear  to  be  gazing  on  some 
distant  scene  till  tears  gathered  in 
them. 

And  when  she  became  for  the  second 
time  a  mother,  when  her  little  girl  was 
born,  when  she  nursed  her  at  her  breast, 
when  she  carried  her  in  her  arms,  when 
she  saw  her  totter  on  the  grass,  and 
then  fall  with  a  scream  of  joy  into  her 
delighted  father's  arms,  when  she  be- 
gan to  lisp  a  few  words  of  prayer  at 
her  knee,  and  when,  as  time  went  on, 
she  did  not  miss  one  of  her  smiles,  one 
of  her  childish  sallies,  but  noticed  and 
dwelt  upon  and  treasured  them  all ; 
as  she  kissed  her  soft  cheek,  and  twined 
her  little  arms  round  her  neck,  a  feel- 
ing, made  up  of  pity  and  yearning  and 
a  vague  self-reproach,  would  for  a  mo- 
ment wring  her  heart  at  the  thought 
of  her  first-born,  the  lonely  royal  child 


in  the  cold  northern  palace  far  away. 
Sometimes  she  passionately  longed  for 
tidings  of  her  kindred.  Sudden  and 
final  as  her  separation  had  been  from 
them,  gushes  of  tender  recollections 
would  now  and  then  arise  in  her  soul, 
when  some  accidental  word  or  sound, 
or  the  smell  of  a  flower,  or  a  feeling  in 
the  air,  recalled  some  scene  of  her 
childhood  and  youth.  Of  her  sister 
she  chiefly  thought ;  who,  on  the  same 
day  as  herself,  had  been  doomed  to  an 
untried  destiny,  and  with  whom  she 
had  parted  in  the  blissful  unconscious- 
ness of  coming  woes.  Often  after  a  day 
when  she  had  gathered  about  her  all 
the  little  children  of  the  Mission,  and 
played  and  laughed  with  them  to  their 
hearts'  content,  her  pillow  at  night 
would  be  wet  with  tears.  These  were 
the  shadows  that  clouded  over  her 
bright  days,  but  bright  they  were  with- 
all,  bright  as  love  could  make  them. 
With  the  quiet  enthusiasm  of  the  Ger- 
man character  she  applied  herself  to 
all  the  duties  of  her  new  position,  and 
governed  her  household  with  the  talent 
whicn  Peter  the  Great  had  discerned 
in  his  daughter-in-law.  It  was  a  pecu- 
liar one  she  had  to  rule,  but  the  charm 
of  her  manner,  joined  to  the  goodness 
of  her  heart,  carried  every  thing  before 
it.  She  was  a  little  bit  exacting ;  she 
liked  to  be  waited  upon  and  followed 
about,  and  made  the  first  object  of  all 
her  dependents,  but  they  did  not  love 
her  the  less  for  it.  There  are  persons 
who  are  allowed  to  be  tyrants  by  a  sort 
of  common  assent ;  no  one  has  any  de- 
sire to  shake  off  the  yoke,  so  sweetly 
and  lightly  does  it  sit  upon  them ;  but 
they  must  be  the  elected  monarchs  of 
their  subjects'  hearts.  Nobody  has  a  ( 
divine  right  to  have  their  own  way. 

Who  would  ever  have  guessed  that 
Madame  d'Auban  had  been  reared  in  a 
palace  who  had  seen  her  at  work  in  her 
kitchen  or  in  her  laundry  by  the  river's 
side  ?  And  yet,  perhaps,  a  keen-sighted 


120 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


observer  would  have  noticed  the  refine- 
ment of  all  her  movements — the  grace 
of  her  attitudes — and  .deemed  her  fit 
for  a  throne  as  she  stood  amidst  her 
dark-coloured  slaves  on  the  green  mar- 
gin of  the  stream,  spreading  the  white 
linen  on  the  grass,  or  wringing  it  with 
her  still  whiter  hands. 

It  was  as  pretty  a  picture  as  possible, 
with  its  background  of  forest  trees, 
and  its  chequered  lights  and  shades. 
D'Auban  sometimes  watched  it  from 
a  distance,  and  reminiscences  of  his 
classical  studies  would  recur  to  him  as 
he  gazed  on  his  fair  and  beautiful  wife 
and  her  dark  attendants.  Thus  were 
Homer's  princesses  wont  to  direct  the 
labours  of  their  maidens.  He  did  not 
feel  as  if  his  bride  was  one  whit  less 
royally  occupied  than  if  she  had  been 
holding  a  drawing-room.  What  would 
have  seemed  unbefitting  her  birth  in 
such  occupations  if  associated  with  the 
commonplace  scenes  of  the  Old  World, 
seemed  transformed  into  poetry  when 
carried  on  amidst  the  grand  scenery  of 
the  New.  The  wild-looking  Indians; 
the  negresses  with  their  bright-coloured 
head-dresses  ;  the  pines,  the  palms,  the 
brilliant  sky,  lent  an  Oriental  colour- 
ing to  the  whole  scene.  St.  Agathe 
seemed  made  for  the  abode  of  a  fairy 
queen.  Nature  and  fancy  had  lavished 
upon  it  all  their  gifts;  and  love,  the 
most  potent  of  all  magicians,  had 
heightened  all  its  charms.  D'Auban's 
fond  dream  had  been  to  make  it  a  per- 
fect home  for  the  woman  who  had 
transformed  his  solitude  into  a  para- 
dise, and  many  a  princess,  "  nursed  in 
pomp  and  pleasure,"  but  *who  had 
never  reigned  over  a  devoted  heart, 
might  have  envied  the  fate  of  the  set- 
tler's wife.  She  had  her  courtiers,  too, 
this  princess,  who,  when  once  she  had 
renounced  her  rank  and  gained  happi- 
ness in  its  stead,  began,  with  a  truly 
royal  instinct,  to  gather  around  her 
a  crowd  of  satellites,  and  was  more 


worshipped  than  any  eastern  or  west- 
ern queen.  Her  house  was  literally 
besieged  all  day  by  these,  liege  lords  of 
every  race  and  colour.  Indians,  ne- 
groes, and  poor  whites  were  equally 
devoted  to  the  lady  of  St.  Agathe. 
They  claimed  her  bounty  and  her  sym 
pathy — her  help,  or,  if  nothing  else, 
her  kind  words.  They  brought  offer- 
ings also,  and  laid  at  her  feet  fish  and 
game,  and  fruit  and  flowers ;  she  who 
had  once,  in  her  days  of  gloom  and 
misery,  disclaimed  all  love  for  "the 
sweet  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies," 
now  gladdened  with  delight  at  the 
sight  of  the  prairie  lily,  the  wild  rose, 
or  the  blue  amorpha.  The  homage 
paid  her  by  the  childlike  Indians  was 
almost  superstitious.  One  of  the  hairs 
of  the  head  once  bowed  down  in  an- 
guish at  the  feet  of  a  princely  ruffian 
was  treasured  as  a  talisman.  Father 
Maret  said  to  her  one  day,  "  I  must 
preach,  Madame,  against  the  Magnolian 
idolatry.  One  of  your  Indian  worship- 
pers wears  a  stone  fastened  to  his 
girdle.  I  asked  him  what  it  meant, 
and  he  said  the  wife  of  the  French 
chief,  the  white  Magnolia,  had  set  her 
foot  on  it  when  she  entered  his  cabin. 
I  cannot  sanction  the  use  of  these  new 
manitous." 

She  laughed,  and  answered,  "  It  is  all 
poetry,  reverend  Father  ;  poetry  in  ac- 
tion. Now  that  I  begin  to  understand 
the  language  of  these  people,  I  am  more 
and  more  struck  with  the  imaginative 
beauty  of  their  ideas,  and  the  graceful 
form  in  which  they  clothe  them.  I 
try  to  enter  into  its  spirit,  and  to  reply 
to  them  in  the  same  manner.  The 
other  day  I  met  an  Indian,  an  old  man, 
but  not  of  this  tribe;  he  belongs,  I 
think,  to  the  Dacotahs.  He  stopped, 
and  said  to  me :  '  Ah !  my  daughter, 
happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  thee !  My 
heart's  right  hand  I  give  to  thee.  The 
earth  never  blossomed  so  gaily,  or  the 
sun  shone  so  brightly,  as  on  this  day 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


121 


when  I  behold  thee.'  I  answered: 
*  Stranger,  your  words  are  very  good, 
and  I  too  give  you  my  heart's  right 
hand ;  but  whence  do  you  know  me  ? ' 
'The  Mississippi,'  he  said,  'has  whis- 
pered to  the  Wabash,  and  the  Wabash 
to  the  Ohio,  that  the  white  flower  of 
the  Illinois  loves  the  race  of  the  red 
men.  Therefore,  my  daughter,  if  thou 
wilt  come  to  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
and  to  the  hut  of  their  Great  Eagle,  its 
doors  will  be  open  to  greet  thee  in 
peace.'  Was  not  that  pretty,  reverend 
Father,  and  much  more  flattering  than 
the  best- turned  French  compliment  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid,  Madame,"  said  Father 
Maret,  "  that  the  Indians  will  propose 
to  make  you  a  woman-chief  like  the 
female  suns  of  the  Natches." 

"And  why  not?"  cried  Madame 
d'Auban  gaily.  "We  might  both  be 
suns,  or  Henri  might  be  the  sun,  and  I 
the  moon  and  revolve  around  him. 
What  do  you  say  to  this  idea,  Monsieur 
d'Auban  ?  Shall  we  be  king  and  queen 
of  the  Illinois?" 

Her  husband  looked  up  into  her  face 
as  she  bent  lovingly  over  him,  and  said 
with  a  smile,  "  The  hereditary  instinct 
is  still  at  work,  I  see,  Madame.  How 
little  we  thought,"  he  added,  turning 
again  to  Father  Marct,  "how  much 
ambition  there  is  still  in  this  deceitful 
woman's  heart !  She  has  set  up  a  per- 
fect sovereignty  over  the  hearts  of  this 
people,  and  is  dreaming  of  fresh  con- 
quests." 

"  Ah !  I  took  you  both  in.  Well,  I 
own  I  am  ambitious,  but  it  is  a  little 
your  doing,  reverend  Father.  When 
one  has  once  realized  that  principle  of 
yours,  of  working  towards  an  end,  and 
doing  every  thing  with  a  purpose,  there 
is  no  knowing  where  it  may  lead  one. 
It  is  a  little  like  the  traveller's  story  of 
the  Flying  Dutchman — when  his  leg 
was  wound  up  he  could  never  stop 
again.  I  want  to  convert  thousands  of 
souls;  to  draw  all  the  neighbouring 


tribes  into  the  fold  of  the  Church ;  to 
have  as  many  missions  here  as  in  Para- 
guay." 

"  Then,  Madame,  I  see  no  hope  of 
rest  for  you  on  this  side  the  grave," 
answered  the  Father  with  a  smile.  "  I 
never  expected  to  see  you  so  fond  of 
work." 

"  There  is  no  saying  what  indolent 
natures,  when  once  roused,  will  arrive 
at.  Do  not  you  notice,  reverend  Fa- 
ther, great  varieties  of  character  and 
habits  amongst  these  Indian  nations  ? " 

"Very  striking  ones,  I  should  say. 
The  Arkansas  and  the  Algonquins,  as 
well  as  the  Illinois,  have  received  Chris- 
tianity with  much  willingness,  and  are 
attached  to  the  French.  With  the 
Dacotahs  and  the  Natches,  though  in 
some  respects  more  civilized,  very  little 
progress  has  been  made.  The  Dacotahs 
and  Choktaws  are  fierce,  warlike  races, 
and,  though  they  call  themselves  our 
friends,  are  not  quite  to  be  trusted." 

"  I  often  think,"  d'Auban  observed, 
"  that  this  colony  is  living  on  a  volcano. 
Only  think  how  insignificant  is  the 
number  of  our  countrymen  in  compari- 
son with  the  multitude  of  natives  and 
of  negro  slaves  we  have  imported ;  a 
mere  handful,  after  all !  Things  are  in 
a  state  in  which  an  accidental  spark 
might  kindle  a  flame  from  New  Orleans 
to  the  sources  of  the  Mississippi." 

"  Here  at  least,"  said  his  wife,  "  we 
can  feel  quite  in  safety;  our  dear  In- 
dians would  never  turn  against  us." 

"No;  because  they  are  almost  all 
Christians,"  said  Father  Maret.  "  Every 
nation  which  belongs  to  the  Prayer,  as 
they  call  our  religion,  is  attached  to 
France.  The  tie  between  them  and 
their  pastors  is  a  security  against  dis- 
affection. It  is  extraordinary  that  the 
Government  does  not  feel  this,  and  that, 
intent  as  it  is  on  rallying  to  itself  the 
native  Indians,  it  does  so  little  to  for- 
ward their  conversion  and  to  multiply 
missions.  The  fault  does  not  rest  with 


122 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


the  Government  in  France;  and  M. 
Perrier  would  willingly  assist  the  mis- 
sionaries, but  the  Company  is  indifferent 
to  all  but  material  interests." 

"Why  has  it  been  so  difficult," 
d'Auban  asked,  "to  evangelize  the 
Natches,  the  most  civilized,  perhaps, 
of  all  these  nations  ? " 

"  They  have  a  far  more  organized 
system  of  religion  than  any  other  tribe, 
and  it  is  identified  with  their  habits  of 
life  and  form  of  government.  When 
this  is  the  case,  it  is  always  more  diffi- 
cult to  obtain  a  hearing." 

"  Do  they  not  worship  the  sun,  like 
the  ancient  Persians  ? " 

"Yes,  and  their  chief  is  called  the 
Great  Sun  of  the  Natches.  All  his  rel- 
atives are  also  suns,  women  as  well  as 
men.  But  he  is  himself  the  chief  rep- 
resentative of  the  glorious  luminary 
they  adore.  Their  temples  have  some 
architectural  pretensions,  and  their 
ceremonies  are  more  plausible  than  the 
gross  superstitions  of  the  northern  tribes. 
Our  converts  here  are  certainly  wonder- 
fully good.  I  do  not  suppose  that  you 
could  find  in  any  town  or  village  of  Eu- 
rope, in  proportion  to  the  number  of 
inhabitants,  so  many  pious,  practical 
Christians  as  in  this  Indian  settlement. 
I  regret  to  say  that,  for  the  first  time 
since  I  came  here,  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
leave  my  flock  for  a  while.  I  must  go 
to  New  Orleans  to  confer  with  my  su- 
periors. The  father  provincial  expects 
me  this  month.  I  hope  to  bring  back 
many  treasures  for  our  Mission ;  amongst 
them,  a  detachment  of  Ursuline  nuns. 
They  are  doing  wonders  in  New  Or- 
leans. What  do  you  say  to  a  log-built 
convent,  Madame  ?  We  must  fix  upon 
a  suitable  position.  There  are  several 
Indian  girls  preparing  to  join  them." 

"  How  happy  Therese  will  be  to  see 
the  black-robe  women  she  so  often  talks 
of!  But  what  will  become  of  the  Mis- 
sion during  your  absence,  reverend 
Father,  not  tp  speak  of  ourselves  ? " 


"  The  hunting  season  is  at  hand,  and 
our  people  will  soon  disperse.  Other 
years  I  have  followed  them  into  the 
forests,  and  assembled  them  on  Sundays 
and  festivals." 

"Ah!  now  I  enjoyed  that  time  last 
year,"  exclaimed  Madame  d'Auban. 
"  Those  encampments  round  the  huge 
pine-wood  fires,  in  the  midst  of  such 
beautiful  scenery ;  the  grand  leafless 
oaks,  the  pines  burdened  with  snow, 
and  .the  magnificent  cascades;  how 
they  filled  the  air  with  music  till  the 
frost  set  in,  and  then  how  fine  they 
were,  chained  spell-bound  in  awful 
silence !  I  shall  never  forget  our  Mid- 
night Mass  in  the  open  air.  The  words 
'  Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo,  et  in  terra  pax 
hominibus  bonae  voluntatis!'  seemed 
so  appropriate  under  that  dark  blue 
sky,  studded  with  myriads  of  stars,  and 
amongst  our  childlike  people,  as  simple 
and  good  as  the  shepherds  of  Bethlehem. 
Shall  we  have  no  Mass  at  Christmas, 
reverend  Father?  Shall  we  be  for 
weeks,  nay,  months,  perhaps,  without 
a  priest?" 

"  Father  Poisson,  from  St.  Louis, 
has  promised  to  visit  you  during  my 
absence.  You  must  both  do  what  you 
can  for  our  poor  people,  especially  the 
sick,  teaching  them  to  supply,  by  fer- 
vent acts  of  contrition,  for  the  loss  of 
the  sacraments.  The  early  Christians 
for  months,  and  even  for  years,  had  to 
endure  similar  privations,  and  so  have 
the  English  Catholics  in  our  days." 

"  Seasons  of  famine,"  answered  Mad- 
ame d'Auban,  "  teach  us  the  blessings 
of  abundance.  Henri,  do  you  hear 
any  thing  ?  "  she  asked,  observing  that 
her  husband  bent  forward,  so  as  to 
catch  a  distant  sound.  "Is  anybody 
coming  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  heard  the  tramp  of  a 
horse's  feet,"  he  said. 

They  all  listened,  but  the  distant 
sound,  if  there  was  one,  was  drowned 
at  that  moment  by  the  shouts  of  a 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


123 


troop  of  children,  at  whose  head  was 
Wilhelmina,  Monsieur  and  Madame 
d'Auban's  little  girl.  They  came 
sweeping  round  the  corner,  and  ap- 
peared in  front  of  the  verandah,  where 
her  parents  and  the  priest  were  sitting. 

If  her  mother  was  the  queen  of  all 
hearts  in  the  little  world  of  St.  Agathe, 
Wilhelmina  was  the  heiress  apparent 
of  that  sovereignty.  From  the  day 
when  the  Indian  women  gathered 
round  her  cradle,  gazing  on  the  white 
baby  that  looked  like  a  waxen  image, 
wondering  over  its  beauty  till  they 
almost  believed  that  the  tiny  creature 
had  blossomed  like  a  lily  in  the  prairie, 
she  had  been  the  favourite  and  the 
darling  of  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  the  Mission.  She  was  fair 
like  her  mother,  her  features  as  deli- 
cate, and  the  oval  of  her  face  as  per- 
fect; but  her  eyes  were  of  a  deeper 
blue,  and  shaded  by  dark  eyebrows 
and  eyelashes.  From  her  earliest  in- 
fancy she  had  always  looked  older 
than  she  was.  In  her  firm  step  and 
determined  manner  there  was  an  amus- 
ing likeness  to  her  father.  She  evinced 
the  most  decided  preference  for  the 
Indians  over  the  Europeans  and  the 
negroes.  Even  as  a  baby  she  was  wont 
to  stretch,  out  her  little  arms  and  call 
them  her  dear  brown-faces,  and  at  a 
later  age  would  fall  into  a  passion  if 
any  one  said  white  faces  were  prettier. 
The  loud,  monotonous  chant  of  the 
women,  unmelodious  as  it  is  in  Euro- 
pean ears,  was  pleasing  to  the  child, 
who,  in  her  aerial  cradle  amidst  the 
pine  woods,  had  been  rocked  by  its 
wild  music.  Her  playfellows  were 
almost  all  of  them  Indians,  and  their 
language  was  as  familiar  to  her  as 
French  or  German. 

Brought  up  in  the  Mission-school, 
and  by  their  Christian  parents,  these 
children  were  good  and  innocent. 
There  was  only  one  point  on  which 
Mina's  parents  dreaded  the  effect  of 


her  constant  association  with  them. 
The  missionaries  had  not  yet  succeeded 
in  eradicating  from  the  minds  of  their 
converts  all  their  ancient  superstitions. 
Sorcerers  and  jugglers  still  exercised 
some  influence  over  the  native  Chris- 
tians. It  took  a  long  time  to  induce 
them  to  give  up  their  manitous  and 
their  fetishes.  These  were  objects  to 
which  a  superstitious  reverence  was 
attached,  and  to  the  possession  of 
which  were  ascribed  many  supernatu- 
ral advantages — success,  for  instance, 
in  war  and  in  the  chase,  and  immuni- 
ty from  various  dangers.  A  fetish  was 
sometimes  an  animal,  or  it  might  be  a 
plant,  or  a  stone,  or  a  piece  of  wood. 
Tales  of  magic  were  current  amongst 
the  Indians,  and  held  in  belief  even  by 
those  who  on  principle  renounced  all 
intercourse  with  sorcerers  or  magi- 
cians. 

Madame  d'Auban,  whose  mind  had 
wandered  at  random  in  her  youth  in 
an  imaginary  world,  peopled  with 
self-created  visions,  and  unchecked 
by  any  definite  faith,  and  whose  only 
ideas  of  the  supernatural  had  been 
drawn  from  the  legendary  lore  of  her 
native  country,  and  stories  of  appa- 
ritions, such  as  the  well-accredited 
ones  of  the  white  lady  who  visits  the 
palaces  of  the  Teutonic  kings  when 
death  is  at  hand,  and  of  spectral  pro- 
cessions like  Lutzoflfs  wild  rushing 
midnight  hunt,  could  not  always  re- 
press a  shudder  at  the  mysterious  tales 
of  the  Indian  wizards,  But  Wilhelmi- 
na, who  from  her  earliest  childhood 
had  believed  in  angels  and  saints,  and 
to  whom  the  thought  of  the  supernatu- 
ral world  was  one  of  the  brightest  joys 
of  life,  utterly  scouted  whatever  the 
Church  did  not  teach,  and  set  her  face 
against  all  superstitious  practices  with 
the  resolution  which  was  even  at  that 
early  age  a  feature  in  her  character. 
If  any  of  her  companions  happened 
to  show  her  a  manitou,  she  stamped 


124 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


•with  her  tiny  feet,  and  cried  out, 
"Throw  it  away,  or  Mina  will  not 
love  you."  If  they  spoke  of  appari- 
tions, wailing  voices  in  the  forest  at 
night,  eyes  glaring  on  them  in  the 
darkness,  invisible  icy  hands  clasping 
theirs,  she  would  shake  her  head,  and 
say,  "Mina  never  hears  those  voices 
— Mina  never  sees  those  eyes — Mina 
never  feels  those  hands — Mina  makes 
the  sign  of  the  Cross,  and,  if  there  are 
devils  near  her,  they  go  away." 

"But,  little  Lily  of  the  Prairie," 
they  would  sometimes  urge,  "  Red- 
feather  has  a  manitou  that  makes  him 
catch  more  game  than  any  other  hunter 
in  the  village." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Mina  would  an- 
swer ;  and  if  they  persisted  it  was  true, 
she  said,  "Then  the  devil  helps  Red- 
feather.  I  am  sorry  for  him,  and  the 
game  he  catches  will  do  him  no  good." 
In  this  way  she  fought  her  battles,  al- 
ways adhering  to  her  principle,  and 
insisting  on  her  conclusion,  "It  is  not 
true,  or  if  it  is  true,  it  is  wicked  : "  she 
never  deviated  from  that  line  of  argu- 
ment. She  would  not  play  with  any 
child  that  had  a  manitou ;  but  if  her 
companions  were  frightened  at  going 
home  in  the  dark,  or  would  not  cross  a 
part  of  the  forest  supposed  to  be  haunt- 
ed by  evil  spirits,  she  offered  to  accom- 
pany them,  and  they  were  never  afraid 
when  they  held  her  little  hand,  and 
she  sang  as  they  walked  along  "  Salve 
Regina  !  Mater  misericordise  ! " 

Mina  was  a  most  joyous  child.  Her 
mother  was  sometimes  almost  alarmed 
at  the  exuberance  of  her  spirits,  but  there 
was  a  deep  vein  of  thoughtfulness  in  her 
character,  and  when  she  had  once  learnt 
to  read  her  greatest  delight  was  to  take 
a  book  out  of  her  father's  library  and 
carry  it  into  the  garden,  where  she  sat 
for  hours  under  the  shade  of  a  gum 
tree,  poring  over  the  Lives  of  the  Saints 
or  Corneille's  Tragedies.  A  child's 
book  she  had  never  seen  :  the  few  that 


might  have  existed  at  that  time  were 
not  to  be  met  with  in  the  colony.  One 
prevailing  feeling  seemed  to  grow  with 
her  growth,  and  to  strengthen  with  her 
advancing  years.  This  was  her  devoted 
attachment  to  the  land  of  her  birth  and 
its  native  inhabitants.  It  made  her 
angry  to  be  called  a  French  child. 
She  once  stained  her  face  and  hands 
with  walnut  juice  to  look  like  an  In- 
dian. All  the  high-flown  sentiments 
to  be  found  in  books  about  patriotism 
she  applied  to  her  own  feelings  for 
this  beloved  country.  Whilst  learning 
history  and  geography  from  her  father 
she  always  harped  on  this  point,  and 
exulted  in  finding  on  the  map  that  the 
Seine  and  the  Loire  were  mere  stream- 
lets in  comparison  with  the  Mississippi 
and  the  Ohio,  and  maintained  that 
Indian  Christians  would  never  do  such 
wicked  things  as  the  bad  Europeans. 
She  had  been  named  Wilhelmina  at 
Madame  d'Auban's  earnest  request. 
Her  father  would  have  liked  to  call 
her  Agathe,  but  yielded  to  her  mother's 
wishes.  "But,  my  dearest  wife,"  he 
said,  "  you  will  never  let  her  know,  I 
hope,  that  royal  blood  flows  in  her 
veins,  and  that  she  can  claim  kindred 
with  crowned  heads.  Let  her  grow  up 
I  beseech  you,  in  the  freedonrand  sim- 
plicity of  the  lot  you  have  yourself 
chosen,  and  let  no  thoughts  of  worldly 
grandeur  come  between  her  and  her 
peace.  It  might  well  turn  a  young 
head,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "  to  be 
told  that  she  was  the  niece  of  the  Em- 
press of  Austria,  and  the  sister  of  the 
future  Emperor  of  Russia." 

Madame  d'Auban  sighed,  though  she 
smiled  at  the  same  time.  "  I  promise 
you  to  be  silent  on  that  point,"  she 
said,  fondly  gazing  on  her  infant's  tiny 
face ;  "  but  for  my  own  satisfaction  I 
like  her  to  bear  a  name  which  reminds 
me  of  my  childhood.  It  is,  perhaps, 
a  weakness,  but,  having  broken  every 
tie  which  bound  me  to  my  family,  there 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


125 


is  something  soothing  in  the  thought 
of  one  slight  link  between  us  still." 

And  so  the  little  Creole  was  named 
Wilhelmina,  and  called  by  her  parents 
Mina,  and  by  the  Indians  Wenonah, 
'  Lily  of  the  Prairie." 

On  the  evening  previously  mentioned 
she  had  been  mistress  of  the  revels  at  a 
feast  given  by  The>ese  to  her  scholars, 
and  now,  after  dismissing  her  courtiers 
•with  parting  gifts  of  maple-sugar  and 
sine-jelly,  she  sat  down  on  her  mother's 
snees.  Her  father,  noticing  that  she 
seemed  rather  pensive,  asked  her  what 
she  was  thinking  of.  She  raised  her 
head,  and  said,  "  I  wish  I  had  a  broth- 
er! Little  Dancing-feet  said  to-night 
she  would  take  her  sweet-cake  home  to 
her  brother,  because  he  was  good,  and 
carried  her  over  the  brooks  and  up  the 
hills  when  they  went  out  to  look  for 
berries.  Mother,  would  not  you  like 
to  have  a  son  ? " 

"  Come  to  me,  Mina,"  cried  her 
father,  who  saw  tears  in  his  wife's  eyes. 
Mina  went  to  him,  but  she  too  saw 
those  tears,  and,  rushing  back  to  her 
mother,  she  laid  her  head  on  her  bosom, 
and  whispered,  "  Mother,  have  I  got  a 
brother  in  heaven  ? " 

Madame  d'Auban  bent  down  and 
kissed  her.  "My  Mina,"  she  said, 
"you  have  a  brother;  but  you  will 
not  see  him  on  earth.  You  must  never 
mention  his  name ;  but  when  you  say 
your  prayers  you  may  ask  God  to  bless 
him." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  Oh,  do  tell  me 
his  name ! " 

"  You  may  say, '  God  bless  my  brother 
Peter ! ' " 

"  I  shall  say  it  very  often,"  cried 
Mina,  throwing  her  arms  round  her 
mother's  neck. 

"  Not  out  loud,  my  child." 

"No;  like  this."  She  moved  her 
lips,  without  making  any  sound.  Her 
mother  pressed  a  kiss  upon  them,  and, 
looking  at  her  husband,  said,  "  It  is  a 


comfort  to  have  told  her.  I  could  not 
help  it."  He  nodded  assent,  but  looked 
rather  grave.  He  was  sorry  that  the 
least  shadow  of  a  mystery  should  lie 
in  his  little  daughter's  mind.  She  had 
an  instinctive  feeling  that  her  parents 
were  both  grieved  at  what  had  passed, 
and,  as  is  the  case  with  children  on 
such  occasions,  she  did  not  know  exact- 
ly how  to  behave.  Slipping  off  her 
mother's  knees,  she  went  round  to 
Father  Maret's  side,  and  asked  him  to 
play  dominoes. 

The  tread  of  a  horse  was  now  distinct- 
ly heard  coming  up  the  approach,  a  very 
unusual  sound,  especially  at  that  time 
of  the  year.  In  another  moment  both 
horse  and  rider  became  visible,  and 
d'Auban  recognized  one  of  M.  Perrier's 
messengers. 

"What,  Ferual!"  he  exclaimed,  "is 
it  you  ?  Do  you  bring  letters  ? " 

"Yes,  sir;  a  despatch  from  M. 
Perrier." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  He  held  out  his 
hand  for  it,  and  was  about  to  break 
the  seal,  but  looking  up,  said,  "  Mina, 
run  and  fetch  somebody  to  hold  the 
horse.  You  look  very  tired,  Ferual; 
you  have  ridden  hard,  and  we  know 
through  what  sort  of  country.  Mad- 
ame," he  said,  turning  to  his  wife, 
"  will  you  give  orders  that  refreshments 
may  be  set  before  M.  Ferual." 

The  servants  were  all  at  work  out 
of  doors,  so  Mina  held  the  horse,  and 
coaxed  him  to  eat  some  bits  of  cake 
out  of  her  hand,  and  Madame  d'Auban 
went  herself  to  the  kitchen  to  prepare 
food  for  the  stranger. 

D'Auban  sat  down  at  the  table,  and 
was  soon  absorbed  in  the  contents  of 
M.  Perrier's  letter.  As  soon  as  he  had 
finished  the  first  sheet  he  handed  it  to 
Father  Maret,  and  BO  on  with  the 
others.  When  both  had  read  the  whole 
despatch,  the  Father  said : 

"  Your  previsions  are  realized,  sooner 
than  we  expected." 


126 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"Ay,"  said  d'Auban,  "I  had  long 
feared  something  of  the  kind ;  but  how 
different  it  is  only  to  anticipate  such  a 
calamity,  or  to  have  it  actually  present 
before  one,  almost  at  one's  own  doors !  " 

"  What  will  you  do  ? "  • 

"I  must  go  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
don't  see  how  it  can  be  avoided.  I 
consider  every  Frenchman  is  bound  to 
obey  the  Governor  at  this-  moment  as 
if  he  was  his  commanding  officer." 

"  And  your  wife  and  child  ? " 

"  I  should  like  at  once  to  take  them 
to  New  Orleans,  where  they  would  be 
in  safety,  and  then  place  myself  at  M. 
Perrier's  disposal." 

"  I  suppose  that  would  be  best ;  not 
but  that  they  would  be  safe  here,  I 
think.  We  could  trust  our  Indians." 

"  Oh  !  for  that  matter,  I  believe  every 
one  of  them  would  shed  his  blood  for 
the  mother  and  the  child ;  but  my  wife 
could  not  endure,  I  am  sure,  to  be  left 
behind,  especially  as  you,  too,  are  go- 
ing away.  No;  we  must  set  off  as 
soon  as  we  can,  and  must  break  it  to 
her  at  once." 

"  You  have  no  fears  for  the  journey  ?  " 

"Not  any  immediate  fears.  As  I 
was  saying  an  hour  ago,  I  have  long 
felt  that  we  are  living  on  a  volcano. 
You  notice  the  day  fixed  for  the  general 
insurrection  is  still  some  weeks  distant 
— the  15th  January,  according  to  our 
calendar.  I  suspect  that  up  to  that 
moment  we  shall  find  the  Indians  more 
than  commonly  friendly.  But  for  the 
future  of  the  colony!  God  help  all 
those  engaged  in  the  struggle.  I  fear 
it  will  be  a  terrible  one!  Ah!"  he 
said,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hands, 
"  our  honeymoon  is  over  !  It  has  lasted 
nearly  ten  years.  We  ought  not  to  re- 
pine. It  is  not  often  given  to  man  to 
enjoy  ten  years  of  almost  uninterrupted 
happiness.  Here  she  comes!  How 
will  she  bear  to  leave  St.  Agathe !  And 
poor  little  Mina — what  will  she  feel? 
Well,  well,  it  must  be  gone  through." 


"I  will  leave  you,"  Father  Maret 
said,  as  he  moved  towards  the  door. 
"  You  had  better  be  alone  to  talk  over 
this  matter  with  your  wife ;  and  I  have 
much  to  do  at  home.  But  when  your 
plans  are  settled,  let  me  know,  and  on 
what  day  you  will  start." 

As  he  was  walking  away,  Madame 
d'Auban  called  him  back.  He  waved 
his  hand  with  a  kind  smile,  but  went 
on ;  and  her  husband  said : 

"  He  is  anxious  to  get  home,  dearest ; 
and  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Henri  ?  What 
does  M.  Perrier  say  ?  Oh !  I  am  sure 
there  is  something  amiss;  I  see  it  in 
your  face.  For  God's  sake,  what  is  it  ? 
Nothing  that  will  separate  us  ?  I  can 
bear  any  thing  but  that." 

"  Not  now,  not  at  present,  if  you  will 
come  with  me  to  New  Orleans,  where 
I  must  go  at  once.  M.  Perrier  has  re- 
ceived information  that  a  general  ris- 
ing of  the  Indian  tribes  is  to  take  place 
on  the  15th  of  December — that  they 
have  planned  a  general  massacre  of  the 
French.  If  the  Governor  had  not  re- 
ceived timely  notice  of  this  conspiracy, 
the  whole  colony  must  have  perished. 
Now  there  will  be  time  to  avert  the 
danger.  He  wishes  me  to  come  to  him 
as  soon  as  possible.  He  says  my  long 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  Indians 
will  be  of  great  service  at  this  moment, 
when  the  lives  of  Frenchmen  and  the 
fate  of  the  colony  hang  on  a  thread. 
Now,  dearest  wife,  what  do  you  think 
we  should  do?  For  the  present  we 
run  no  danger  in  remaining  here.  So 
many  of  the  Illinois  are  Christians, 
that  there  is  no  danger  of  their  rising 
against  us." 

Madame  d'Auban  did  not  answer  at 
once.  She  walked  onwards  a  few  steps 
into  the  garden,  which  had  grown 
beautiful  under  her  care.  She  looked  at 
the  majestic  river,  the  pine  forest,  the 
grove  of  tulip-trees,  and  all  the  familiar 
features  of  the  much-loved  scene  where 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


127 


for  ten  years  she  had  been  happy ;  and 
then,  turning  to  her  husband,  said  the 
'same  words  he  had  uttered  a  moment 
before : 

"  Our  long  honeymoon  is  at  an  end ! " 

"But  our  love  .  .  .  ?"  he  tenderly 
whispered : — 

"  Is  holier,  deeper,  stronger  than 
ever,"  she  fervently  exclaimed.  "  Do 
not  be  sorry  for  me,  Henri ;  all  will  be 
right  if  only  you  will  take  us  with 
you."  . 

"  That  is  indeed  what  I  wish ;  I  am 
not  afraid  of  our  poor  Indians.  But 
who  knows  what  might  happen  if  they 
were  attacked  by  more  powerful  neigh- 
bours." 

"And  if  we  were  ever  so  safe — if  we 
could  live  on  in  peace  whilst  others 
were  struggling  and  perishing  around 
us,  we  would  not  accept  of  such  peace 
as  that,  Henri.  It  is  your  duty  to  go. 
It  is  mine  to  follow  you.  If  there  is 
danger,  let  us  meet  it  together." 

"Ah,  madame!  I  thought  such 
would  be  your  wish.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  I  ought  to  obey  M.  Perrier's  sum- 
mons, and  assist  in  every  way  I  can  in 
this  emergency.  I  own  I  could  not 
endure  to  lea,ve  you  and  our  daughter 
behind.  But  I  am  also  very  reluctant 
to  drag  you  back  into  the  world  you 
have  so  much  reason  to  abhor." 

"  I  fear  nothing  but  to  leave  you. 
And  may  I  not  be  of  use,  also,  in  the 
hour  of  danger  ?  You  have  taught  me 
to  work,  my  Henri :  you  can  also  show 
me  how  to  suffer  and  to  dare." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  may  be  of  the 
greatest  use,  dearest  wife.  "We  may, 
indeed,  be  called  upon  to  take  a  part 
in  this  struggle — a  terrible  one,  I  fear 
— for  evil  passion's  will  be  engaged  on 
both  sides." 

A  shade  of  anxiety  passed  over  her 
face. 

"  At  New  Orleans  there  are  so  many 
Europeans.  Is  there  no  danger  of  my 
being  recognized  ? " 


"  Not  much,  I  think,  after  the  lapse 
of  ten  years,  and  when  you  appear  there 
as  my  wife.  But  we  must  be  cautious 
how  we  proceed,  and  at  first  you  must 
live  in  retirement — at  the  Ursuline  Con- 
vent, perhaps,  if  I  have  to  leave  you 
for  a  while.  I  would  rather  you  were 
not  identified  even  with  Madame  de 
Moldau." 

"  A  likeness  may  strike  people,  but 
nothing  more,  I  should  hope.  We 
sometimes  forget,  dearest,  how  incredi- 
ble a  true  history  may  be ;  and  every 
day  makes  me  less  like  my  old  self." 

D'Auban  smiled,  and  thought  the 
lapse  of  time  did  not  make  her  a  whit 
less  beautiful.  She  was  at  thirty -three, 
though  in  a  different  way,  just  as  lovely 
as  at  nineteen. 

"Then  you  will  be  ready  to  go  as 
soon  as  I  can  arrange  about  a  boat  and 
engage  rowers.  The  sooner  we  set  off 
the  better.  Father  Maret  will  go  with 
us,  I  think.  How  little  we  thought, 
when  he  was  talking  just  now  of  his 
journey,  that  we  should  be  his  com- 
panions! The  descent  of  the  river  is 
of  course  a  far  easier  thing  than  its 
ascent.  Still  it  is  tedious  enough.  But, 
please  God,-  we  may  return  here  in  a 
few  months.  "We  must  look  forward 
to  that,  my  dearest  wife." 

"  I  dare  not  think  of  it,  Henri.  For 
some  time  past  I  have  had  a  presenti- 
ment that  we  were  a  great  deal  too 
happy  here  —  happier  than  people 
usually  are.  I  felt  certain  a  change 
was  at  hand.  For  the  last  few  days  I 
have  had  ringing  in  my  ears  some  lines 
a  traveller  carved  with  a  penknife  on 
a  plank  in  Simon's  barge." 

"  Oh  !  my  superstitious  darling,"  ex- 
claimed d'Auban,  fondly  and  reproach- 
fully, "  will  you  never  give  up  believing 
in  presentiments  ?  What  are  the  lines 
you  mean  ? " 

And  if,  midway  through  life  ft  storm  should 

rise 
Amidst  the  dark'ning  seas  and  flashing  skies, 


128 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE'    TRUE. 


With  faith  unshaken  and  with  fearless  eye, 
Thy  task  would  be  to  teach  me  how  to  die. 

"And  you  would  teach  me  to  die, 
Henri,  as  you  have  taught  me  to 
live." 

"  I  will  teach  you  anything  you  like, 
my  own  love,  but  I  don't  see  any  par- 
ticular prospect  of  death  just  now.  And 
I  look  forward  to  gathering  plenty  of 
strawberries  next  summer  from  the 
plants  we  set  this  morning.  It  is  a 
great  blessing  we  have  an  overseer  we 
can  trust.  Jean  Dubois  will  look  after 
our  affairs  as  well  as  I  could  myself 
Antoine  will  come  with  us,  I  suppose. 
And  now  go  and  tell  Mina  of  the  jour- 
ney she  is  about  to  take." 

"  Henri,"  she  said,  turning  back  again 
as  she  was  going  into  the  house,  "  do 
you  know  what  a  feeling  of  relief  it  is 
'when  Providence  decides  a  question 
long  debated  in  one's  conscience?  I 
have  often  thought  our  life  here  was 
like  paradise  for  you  and  myself,  but 
that  a  change  might  be  good  for  Mina ; 
and  then  I  scarcely  ever  hear  now  any 
thing  of  that  other  poor  child.  There 
may  be  duties  to  perform  towards  him 
yet.  I  had  never  courage  to  say  this ; 
but,  now  God  calls  us  away,  I  feel  it  is 
right.  Perhaps  He  is  doing  for  me 
what  I  had  not  strength  to  do  for  my- 
self." 

"  Thank  God  you  see  it  in  that  light, 
dearest ;  but  you  should  have  told  me 
you  had  those  scruples." 

"  Oh,  Henri !  It  is  easier  to  accept 
than  to  seek  suffering." 

It  was  not  quite  in  d'Auban's  nature 
to  feel  this.  Courage  in  endurance 
rather  than  in  action  is  in  general  a 
woman's  characteristic. 

When  it  was  known  in  the  settlement 
that  the  inhabitants  of  St.  Agathe  were 
about  to  depart,  though  only  for  a  few 
months,  there  was  a  general  feeling  of 
dismay.  Not  only  the  Black  Robe  was 
going,  but  the  White  Chief  and  his  wife 
and  child.  It  was  a  public  calamity, 


and  crowds  came  to  St.  Agathe  to  as 
certain  if  it  were  true. 

Mina  assembled  her  friends  on  the 
lawn  and  made  them  a  parting  speech. 
She  said  she  was  going  to  the  south, 
like  the  birds  they  used  to  watch  pre- 
paring for  their  yearly  flight,  and  that 
like  them  she  would  return  when  the 
winter  had  come  and  gone.  She  was 
sorry  to  go,  and  she  carried  away  in 
her  heart  all  her  Indian  brothers  and 
sisters.  She  would  bring  them  back 
gifts  from  the  city  of  the  white  men : 
golden  balls,  such  as  Simon  sometimes 
carried  in  his  barge,  and  pictures  like 
those  in  the  church,  only  so  small  that 
they  could  hold  them  in  their  hands— 
and  sweetmeats  -more  delicious  than 
maple-tree  sugar.  But  she  should  not 
stay  with  the  white  people,  she  did  not 
like  white  children — she  could  not  help 
being  white  herself,  it  was  not  her 
fault :  the  lilies  could  not  make  them- 
selves red  like  roses,  if  they  wished  it 
ever  so  much :  she  must  be  white  wheth- 
er she  liked  it  or  not."  Here  the  little 
orator  paused,  and  one  of  the  Indian 
children  answered — 

"  We  love  your  whiteness,  little  Lily ; 
we  should  not  love  a  red  rose  half  so 
well.  We  should  not  think  you  so 
pretty  if  you  were  brown  like  us.  But 
when  you  play  with  white  children  in 
the  land  where  golden  balls  hang 
amidst  shining  leaves,  do  not  love  them 
as  you  love  us ;  they  will  not  love  you 
as  we  do.  You  will  get  tired  of  golden 
balls  and  sweetmeats.  You  will  long 
for  the  forests  and  the  prairies.  You 
will  not  complain,  for  the  daughter  of 
a  chief  never  complains,  even  if  the 
enemy  tears  out  her  heart.  But  you 
will  die  if  you  do  not  come  back  to  us? 
and  then  we  shall  not  see  you  till  we 
go  to  the  land  of  the  hereafter." 

In  a  very  few  days  d'Auban's  arrange- 
ments were  completed,  a  small  amount 
of  luggage  stowed  in  the  barge  he  had 
engaged,  and  a  mattress  placed  at  one 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


129 


end  of  it  for  his  wife  and  daughter. 
He  took  with  him  a  fowling  piece,  a 
pair  of  pistols  in  case  of  danger,  and 
also  some  provisions;  for  he  did  not 
wish  to  stop  at  the  Indian  villages  oft- 
ener  than  was  necessary.  He  hoped  to 
kill  game  as  he  went  along,  and  so  eke 
out  their  supplies  till  they  arrived  at 
New  Orleans.  As  to  Father  Maret,  his 
breviary  was  the  heaviest  portion  of 
his  luggage.  They  started  on  a  beau- 
tiful October  morning.  St.  Agathe  was 
in  its  greatest  beauty.  Madame  d'Au- 
ban  fixed  her  eyes  wistfully  on  the  pa- 
vilion as  the  barge  glided  away,  and  took 
leave  of  it  in  the  silence  of  her  heart. 
She  squeezed  tightly  the  little  hand 
clasped  in  her  own.  Mina's  regrets 
were  for  the  moment  swallowed  up  in 
the  excitement  of  the  journey,  and  when 
the  boat  began  to  move  she  clapped  her 
hands  with  joy. 

The  descent  of  the  stream,  as  d'Au- 
ban  had  said,  was  far  less  trying  than 
its  ascent;  still  it  had  its  difficulties, 
its  sufferings,  and  its  dangers.  In  some 
places  it  was  difficult  to  steer  the  boat 
amidst  the  floating  masses  of  rotten 
wood  and  decaying  vegetation  which 
impeded  its  progress.  Sometimes  a 
cloud  of  musquitoes  darkened  the  air 
and  inflicted  the  greatest  torment  on 
the  travellers.  They  had  to  step  on 
shore  now  and  then  to  get  provisions 
and  purer  water  than  that  of  the  river. 
If  they  landed  amidst  the  brushwood 
they  were  obliged  to  light  fires  for  fear 
of  serpents.  The  sun  was  very  hot  and 
the  nights  sometimes  cold.  They  hur- 
ried on  as  much  as  they  could,  without 
feeling  any  considerable  amount  of  anx- 
iety ;  still  they  could  not  but  long  for 
the  journey  to  end.  Now  and  then 
they  exchanged  a  few  words  with  some 
of  the  natives  on  the  banks  of  the 
river.  They  seemed  in  general  well 
disposed,  and  nothing  in  their  lan- 
guage or  their  looks  gave  the  least 
intimation  that  events  such  as  M. 
9 


Perrier  anticipated  were  really  im- 
pending. 

One  evening  the  rowers  had  slack- 
ened their  speed,  they  were  lying  on 
their  oars  and  the  boat  gently  drifting 
with  the  current,  when  on  a  promon- 
tory a  little  ahead  of  them  appeared 
two  persons,  who  hailed  them  as  they 
approached,  and  made  signs  they  wish- 
ed them  to  stop.  They  turned  out  to 
be  Frenchmen  from  the  settlement  of 
the  Natches,  who  were  on  the  look-out 
for  Father  Maret.  They  had  heard 
that  a  priest  was  on  his  way  to  New 
Orleans.  Father  Souel  had  gone  some 
weeks  before  to  the  district  of  the 
Yasous.  Two  or  three  persons  had 
fallen  ill  since  and  were  lying  on  their 
death-beds  in  great  need  of  spiritual 
assistance.  The  next  day  happened 
to  be  a  Sunday,  and  the  French,  to- 
gether with  a  few  native  Christians, 
had  commissioned  these  deputies  to 
entreat  the  stranger  priest  to  tarry  for 
a  few  hours  to  say  Mass  for  them,  and 
to  minister  to  the  sick  and  dying. 
D'Auban  did  not  much  like  the  idea 
of  this  delay,  but  the  need  was  so 
urgent  that  he  did  not  feel  himself 
justified  in  refusing  his  assent.  The 
boat  was  accordingly  moored  to  the 
shore  and  a  single  rower  left  in  charge 
of  it.  The  travelling  party,  escorted 
by  the  messengers,  proceeded  to  the 
city  of  the  Natches,  where  Christians 
from  the  neighbouring  habitations 
had  met  and  were  awaiting  Father 
Maret's  arrival. 

Mina  was  enchanted  to  land,  after 
so  many  weary  days'  confinement  in 
the  boat,  to  run  on  the  grass  and  to 
climb  the  hill  which  stood  between 
the  river  and  the  beautiful  plain  in 
which  the  tribe  of  the  Sun — for  so  the 
Natches  called  themselves — had  built 
their  city,  or  rather  the  immense  vil- 
lage, the  huts  of  wliich  were  scattered 
amidst  groves  of  acacias  and  tulip- 
trees.  In  the  centre  of  a  square  stood 


130 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


the  palace  of  the  Sun,  or  chief,  of  the 
nation.  Opposite  to  it  was  the  abode 
of  the  female  Sun,  mother  of  the  heir- 
apparent.  It  was  only  as  to  size  that 
these  palaces  differed  from  the  other 
huts.  All  the  houses  were  composed 
of  one  story.  They  were  roofed  with 
thatch  interwoven  with  leaves.  The 
halls  were  hung  with  mats  of  a  fine 
texture  and  embroidered  in  various 
colours.  The  day  was  waning  as  the 
travellers  approached  the  city.  Torches 
of  blazing  pine-wood,  fixed  at  certain 
distances,  and  carried  about  in  the 
hands  of  the  inhabitants,  threw  a  red 
light  over  the  scene,  which  heightened 
its  picturesque  effect.  Mina's  delight 
knew  no  bounds.  It  was  like  Fairy- 
land opening  to  her  sight.  New  and 
beautiful  flowers  seemed  to  grow  on 
every  side,  and  the  golden  fruit  on  the 
trees,  mingling  with  white  blossoms, 
filled  her  with  admiration.  She  saw, 
for  the  first  time,  regular  gardens  and 
alleys  symmetrically  planted.  All  the 
gorgeous  beauty  of  southern  vegeta- 
tion united  to  a  degree  of  civilization 
she  had  never  before  witnessed. 

The  party  was  received  at  the  door 
of  Father  Souel's  hut  by  his  only  ser- 
vant, an  old  negro,  who  clapped  his 
hands  with  joy  at  the  sight  of  a  black- 
robe.  He  explained  in  broken  French 
all  the  chief  of  prayer  would  have  to 
do,  and,  with  scarce  a  moment's  delay, 
Father  Maret  hastened  to  the  huts  of 
the  sick  persons  he  named  to  him. 
D'Auban  in  the  mean  time  went  to 
visit  some  of  the  neighbouring  French 
colonists.  He  found  them  unconscious 
of  any  approaching  danger,  and  did 
not  think  it  prudent  to  communicate^ 
to  them  the  intelligence  he  had  re- 
ceived from  M.  Perrier.  Circumstan- 
ces might  have  changed  since  his 
letter  had  been  written,  and,  in  any 
case,  a  panic  amongst  the  Europeans 
would  only  have  been  likely  to  pre- 
cipitate a  collision  with  the  natives. 


In  a  very  short  time  now,  he  would  be 
able  to  confer  with  the  governor  of 
the  colony  on  the  necessary  precautions 
to  be  taken  for  the  protection  of  the 
Europeans.  One  person  mentioned 
that,  a  short  time  ago,'  a  deputation 
from  the  chief  had  gone  to  M.  Chepar, 
the  commander  of  the  neighbouring 
fort,  to  remonstrate  on  some  harsh 
measures  which  the  Natches  complain- 
ed of.  There  had  been  a  great  deal 
of  mutual  irritation  at  that  time,- 
which  now  appeared  to  have  subsided. 
Apprehensions,  however,  were  enter- 
tained of  ill-will  towards  the  French 
on  the  part  of  the  Dacotahs,  a  fierce  race, 
often  at  war  with  its  neighbours,  and 
supposed  to  be  hostile  to  the  colonists. 

M.  des  Ursins,  the  owner  of  one  of 
the  principal  concessions  in  this  dis- 
trict, described  the  Natches  as  a  clever, 
cunning,  but  effeminate  people,  who 
would  never  venture  on  any  daring  act, 
or  do  more  than  strive  to  outwit  their 
neighbours  and  cheat  them  in  their 
bargains.  "  They  have  had,  however," 
he  added,  laughing,  "  the  worst  of  it 
just  now  in  a  transaction  of  this  sort. 
Their  hunters,  which  comprise,  as  you 
know,  almost  all  the  men  of  the  tribe, 
are  preparing  for  the  winter  season, 
and  have  been  at  the  fort  haggling 
with  the  officers  about  a  purchase  of 
guns  and  powder.  In  their  eagerness 
to  outbid  each  other  they  overdid  their 
offers,  and,  I  believe,  our  people  made 
a  good  thing  of  it,  and  secured  an  im- 
mense supply  of  fowls,  Indian  corn, 
and  provisions  of  all  sorts." 

"How  far  is  it  from  here  to  the 
fort?"  asked  d'Auban,  who  had  lis- 
tened thoughtfully  to  these  details. 

"  About  a  league.  The  commandant 
will  be  delighted  to  see  you,  and  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  sending  a  letter 
by  safe  hands  to  the  governor." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  that  I 
should  see  him.  Where  does  the  pere 
Souel  say  mass  when  he  is  here  ? " 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


131 


"When  the  weather  is  fine,  in  the 
open  air;  or  in  the  winter  or  rainy  sea- 
son, in  a  hut  which  is  ill-fitted  for  a 
chapel.  There  are  not  a  great  many 
Christians  here,  you  know.  We  have 
no  regular  resident  missionary,  and 
no  school.  There  have  been  fewer 
converts  amongst  the  Natches  than 
amongst  any  other  tribe,  I  believe,  with 
which  Europeans  have  had  relations. 
They  are  more  attached  to  their  form 
of  worship  than  the  other  Indians.  We 
colonists  are  not  an  edifying  set,  as 
you  well  know,  so  that  it  cannot  be 
said  that  religion  flourishes  here.  Still, 
we  like  to  hear  Mass  now  and  then. 
We  have  not  turned  quite  heathens. 
So,  au  revoir;  to-morrow  in  the  field 
behind  the  hut,  where,  I  believe,  you 
are  staying." 

D'Auban  walked  back  to  the  village. 
The  moon  was  shedding  her  pale  light 
on  the  trembling  foliage  of  the  acacias, 
the  large  tulip  leaves  rustled  in  the 
night  breeze,  and  the  magnolias  emitted 
their  incense-like  odour. 

As  he  approached  the  outskirts  of 
the  city,  something  white  came  running 
swiftly  towards  him,  and,  before  he 
had  time  to  recognize  her,  Mina  threw 
herself  into  his  arms. 

"Child!"  he  exclaimed,  with  the 
sort  of  anger  which  anxiety  gives, 
"What  are  you  doing,  here?  Why 
have  you  left  your  mother  ? " 

"  We  both  fell  asleep  when  you  went 
away,  but  I  woke  up  in  a  little  while. 
It  was  dull  to  lie  down  doing  nothing 
when' the  moon  was  shining  so  bright- 
ly ;  I  thought  I  would  steal  out  quite 
softly,  without  disturbing  my  mother, 
and  gather,  in  the  field  behind  the 
house,  some  flowers  to  put  on  the  altar 
to-morrow  morning ;  I  have  seen  some 
vases  in  Pere  Scud's  room  like  those 
we  have  at  home." 

"  You  should  not  have  left  the  hut 
alone,  Mina,"  said  her  father,  taking 
her  by  the  hand, 


"I  have  got  these  beautiful  red 
flowers,  papa,  and  I  met  some  friends 
in  that  field." 

"  Friends !    What  friends  ? " 

"  Two  Indian  boys,  papa,  with  dark 
black  eyes  and  long  hair  hanging  down 
their  backs,  and  bright  feathers  round 
their  heads,  and  belts  embroidered 
with  red  silk  about  their  waists.  The 
moment  they  saw  me,  one  of  them 
came  and  spoke  to  me,  in  a  language  a 
little  like  my  own,  but  not  quite  the 
same.  Yet  I  understood  what  he  said. 
He  asked  if  I  was  his  little  sister  who 
had  gone  some  time  ago  to  the  land 
of  the  hereafter.  I  shook  my  head, 
and  then  the  other  boy  said:  'Your 
sister's  skin  was  of  the  colour  of  the 
leaves  which  fall  in  autumn,  and  her 
eyes  like  the  berries  we  gather  on  the 
guava  bushes.  But  this  is  a  daughter 
of  the  white  men  with  a  neck  like 
snow  and  eyes  of  the  colour  of  the  sky.' 
But  the  other  answered :  '  I  am  sure 
she  is  not  a  child  of  the  white  men. 
She  is  not  like  any  child  I  have  ever 
seen,  and  I  should  like  to  have  her  for 
my  own.  I  think  she  comes  from  the 
great  blue  salt  lake  which  some  of  our 
people  speak  of,  or  from  some  cloud  in 
the  sky.' " 

"  What  did  you  say  to  them,  Mina  ?  " 
asked  her  father,  clasping  her  hand 
still  tighter,  with  a  vague  sense  of 
uneasiness. 

"  I  told  them  I  was  an  Indian  child, 
father,  and  that  I  was  born  in  a  land  a 
great  way  off,  which  belonged  to  anoth- 
er tribe,  and  that  the  Indians  I  loved 
were  Christians.  Then  they  told  me 
that  they  were  children  of  the  sun,  and 
one  of  them  touched  my  hair,  and  said 
that  a  ray  of  sunshine  had  turned  it 
into  gold,  and  the  other  asked  to  look 
at  my  little  crucifix — this  one  round 
my  neck.  He  said  something  about 
the  black-robe  chief  of  prayer,  and  then 
spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  the  other,  who 
asked  me  my  name.  I  said  it  was 


132 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


Wenouah,  the  Lily  of  the  Prairie.  They 
gave  me  these  flowers,  which  I  was  not 
tall  enough  to  gather  myself.  Will 
they  not  look  beautiful  on  the  altar, 
these  bright  red  flowers  ? " 

D'Auban  smoothed  and  stroked  her 
head,  and  hurried  towards  the  hut. 
The  evening  was  beautiful ;  the  scenery 
enchanting;  the  air  soft  and  balmy; 
but  he  felt  ill  at  ease.  There  seemed 
to  him  a  heavy  weight  in  the  atmos- 
phere. Perhaps  it  was  only  his  fancy. 
Perhaps  a  storm  was  gathering.  A 
few  dark  clouds  were  lying  over  the 
mountains  to  the  westward.  The  lights 
from  the  pine-wood  torches  in  the 
town  were  brighter  than  ever.  Groups 
of  Indians  were  scattered  about 
amongst  the  trees,  some  playing  at 
active  games,  some  sitting  in  circles 
round  men  who  were  soothsaying  and 
telling  fortunes,  after  the  manner  of 
their  tribe.  From  the  trees  hung  cra- 
dles, in  which  infants  were  rocked  to 
sleep  by  the  evening  breeze.  At  the 
fountain  in  the  middle  of  the  square, 
maidens  were  filling  their  wooden 
pitchers.  Serene,  lovely,  and  very 
picturesque  was  the  aspect  of  that  In- 
dian city  as  the  moon  rose  high  in  the 
dark-blue  sky,  as  the  light  of  myriads 
of  stars  shamed  the  brightness  of  the 
pine-wood  torches.  Strange  it  was 
that  precisely  at  that  moment  a  fit  of 
home  sickness  came  over  d'Auban  such 
as  he  had  never  felt  in  the  wilder 
northern  regions  he  had  so  long  inhab- 
ited. But  in  this  hour  of  serene  beauty, 
in  this  spot  of  luxuriant  loveliness,  he 
thought,  with  a  pang  that  seemed  to 
cause  him  absolute  physical  pain,  of 
the  smell  and  feeling  of  the  briny, 
damp  westerly  wind  as  it  used  to  blow 
in  his  face  on  the  heights  of  Keir  Anna ; 
and  of  the  bold,  brave  men  who  had 
carried  him  on  their  shoulders  in  the 
days  of  his  childhood.  He  longed  for 
his  native  land;  for  a  glimpse  of  its 
cloudy  sky,  with  a  feverish  longing 


like  that  of  a  dying  man  on  the  battle 
field  for  a  glass  of  cold  water.  He 
turned  away  with  loathing  from  the 
sight  of  the  fair  Indian  valley  studded 
with  white  huts  and  gleaming  with 
lights  which  glowed  amidst  the  olean- 
ders like  the  fire-flies  in  the  groves  of 
Italy,  and  hurried  to  the  hut,  where 
his  wife  had  just  started  up  from  the 
profound  sleep  of  fatigue,  and  missed 
Mina  from  her  side.  At  that  moment 
Father  Maret  came  in  also.  He  had 
been  visiting  the  sick  ever  since  his 
arrival,  and  administered  the  last  sacra- 
ments to  two  or  three  who  were  dying. 

"  To-morrow  morning,"  he  said,  "  I 
shall  have  to  go  and  give  Communion 
to  an  old  Christian  sachem  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  village,  and  as  soon  as  I 
return  I  must  say  Mass  in  the  field  be- 
hind this  hut.  Almost  all  the  Chris- 
tians will  come.  We  can  depart  imme- 
diately afterwards." 

"  The  boys  who  gave  me  the  bright 
red  flowers  will  be  there,"  said  Mina ; 
"they  told  me  so.  They  said,  'We 
will  take  care  of  you  to-morrow,  little 
sister  of  the  children  of  the  sun.  We 
will  take  you  to  our  mother.'  " 

"What  did  they  say?"  said  d'Au- 
ban, sharply;  "repeat  their  words 
exactly."  Mina  did  so,  and  then  said : 
"  Father,  do  let  us  stay  another  day  in 
this  beautiful  village." 

"  God  forbid,"  murmured  d'Auban. 
"  This  place  kills  me.  The  very  smell 
of  the  flowers  seems  to  poison  the  air. 
I  never  hated  any  spot  so  much.  Now 
let  us  try  to  eat  something,  and  then  get 
to  sleep." 

Soon  the  mother  and  the  child  were 
slumbering  quietly  side  by  side  on  a 
mat,  with  some  cloaks  for  pillows. 
Father  Maret  took  his  breviary  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  said :  "  It  has  been  a 
good  day's  work,  my  dear  d'Auban. 
What  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  help  a 
poor  soul  on  its  way  to  eternity ! 
Thank  God  we  stopped  here.  It  has 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


133 


«ot  been  in  vain.  Several  Christians 
would  have  died  without  the  sacra- 
ments if  His  Providence  had  not  con- 
ducted us  to  this  place." 

"  You  look  quite  worn  out,"  said 
d'Auban.  "  Surely  you  will  not  say 
four  office  now :  you  will  take  some  rest?" 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  to  rest  to- 
morrow," answered  the  priest,  with  the 


smile  which  his  friends  knew  so  well, 
and  which  lighted  up  his  pale  face  at 
that  moment  with  more  than  usual 
brightness.  Long  did  d'Auban  remem- 
ber those  words,  and  the  smile  which 
accompanied  them.  For  some  minutes 
he  watched  the  priest  saying  his  office, 
and  then  his  own  eyelids  closed,  and  he 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTEK    II. 


Woe,  woe  to  the  Bone  of  Gaul ! 

They  were  gathered,  one  and  all, 

To  the  harvest  of  the  sword, 

And  the  morning  sun,  with  a  quiet  smile, 

Shone  out  over  hill  and  glen. 


Aye  the  sunshine  sweetly  smiled, 
As  its  early  glance  came  forth, 

It  had  no  sympathy  with  the  wild 
And  terrible  things  of  earth.—  Whither. 

Odours  of  orange  flowers  and  spice 
Beached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. — Longfellow. 


BEFORE  the  sun  had  risen,  just  as  a 
faint  ray  of  light  was  dawning  in  the 
east,  Father  Maret  was  on  his  way  to 
the  hut  of  the  old  sachem,  whom  he 
had  promised  to  visit  that  morning. 
When  he  arrived  there  a  noble-looking 
Indian  boy  opened  the  door  for  him, 
and  pointed  to  the  couch  where  the 
sick  man  was  lying.  Whilst  the  priest 
was  administering  the  last  sacraments 
to  the  sachem,  he  went  out  of  the  hut, 
and  stood  there  gazing,  with  folded 
arms  and  mournful  brow,  at  the  sky, 
from  which  the  stars  were  gradually 
disappearing. 

When  the  Father  was  preparing  to 
take  leave  of  the  old  man,  he  detained 
him  and  said,  "  Good  Father,  call  my 
son  Ontara ;  I  would  fain  speak  to  him 


in  your  presence,  and  make  him  my 
parting  gift.  He  is  one  of  the  sons  of 
the  Woman  Chief;  his  father  was  a 
famous  warrior  who  died  in  the  war 
with  the  Choktaws.  He  has  been  as  a 
son  to  me  since  the  time  I  carried  him 
in  my  arms,  and  taught  him  to  shoot 
and  to  swim.  He  is  good,  and  the 
Great  Spirit  sends  him  higher  and  bet- 
ter thoughts  than  to  other  youths  of 
his  age.  But  he  believes  not  yet  in  the 
Christian  prayer.  The  words  I  have 
spoken  to  him  have  fallen  unheeded  on 
his  ear,  like  the  seed  scattered  on  the 
hard  rock.  But  I  will  give  him  this 
crucifix,  which  the  Black  Robe  of  the 
Yasous  gave  me  when  I  was  a  prisoner 
amongst  that  tribe,  and  he  will  keep  it 
for  the  love  of  Outalissi,  till  the  day 


134 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


when  the  voice  of  the  Great  Spirit 
speaks  to  his  soul,  and  he  believes  the 
Christians'  prayer."  As  he  said  this  a 
change  came  over  the  features  of  the 
old  man,  and  the  priest,  who  saw  that 
death  was  at  hand,  hastened  to  summon 
the  boy.  His  dark  fearless  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  the  face  of  the  dying 
sachem,  who  said : 

"My  son,  take  this,  my  greatest 
treasure.  You  will  one  day  know  its 
value." 

"  Is  it  a  manitou  ? "  asked  the  boy. 

"  No,  my  son ;  it  is  the  image  of  Him 
who  died  upon  the  cross ;  of  the  Son 
of  the  Great  Spirit  whom  Christians 
adore."  ' 

"  I  cannot  belong  to  the  Black-robe's 
prayer,"  the  boy  said ;  "  I  am  a  child  of 
the  Sun." 

The  old  man's  eyes  beamed  with  a 
sudden  light.  "  My  beautiful  one,"  he 
cried,  "my  hunter  of  the  hills,  the 
Great  Spirit  will  make  thee  one  day 
a  fisher  of  men."  The  energy  with 
which  these  words  were  pronounced 
exhausted  the  speaker ;  he  fell  back 
in  a  swoon.  While  the  missionary 
was  striving  to  recall  life  and  con- 
sciousness to  the  sinking  frame,  the 
boy  hastily  snatched  the  crucifix,  which 
had  fallen  from  his  hands,  and  hid  it  in 
his  bosom. 

A  few  moments  afterwards  the  aged 
sachem  breathed  his  last,  and  whilst 
the  priest,  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the 
corpse,  repeated  in  a  low  voice  the 
"  Miserere,"  the  Indian  youth  struck  up 
a  death-song,  in  which  were  blent,  with 
great  pathos,  his  own  impassioned  re- 
grets, praises  of  the  dead,  and  previ- 
sions as  to  the  destiny  of  the  departed 
spirit  in  the  islands  of  the  blessed,  in 
the  kingdom  of  the  hereafter.  The 
hour  which  had  been  fixed  upon  for 
Mass  was  arrived.  Madame  d'Auban 
and  the  Pere  Souel's  negro  servant  had 
arranged  the  altar  on  the  greensward 
behind  the  hut :  a  sort  of  plain  which 


extended  from  the  village  to  the  forest. 
Mina  had  ornamented  it  with  nosegays 
of  red  and  white  flowers,  and  festoons 
of  the  trailing  vine.  The  Pere  Maret 
returned  just  before  the  appointed  time. 
He  had  to  hear  confessions  before  be- 
ginning the  Holy  Sacrifice,  and  stayed 
in  the  hut  for  that  purpose.  Mean- 
while the  French  colonists  and  a  small 
number  of  Indian  converts  emerged 
from  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  neigh- 
bouring groves,  and  seated  themselves 
upon  the  grass.  Men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren were  there.  Even  the  least  reli- 
gious amongst  the  emigrants  felt  a 
pleasure  at  the  thought  of  hearing  Mass 
again. 

At  last  the  Pere  Maret  came  out  of 
the  hut  with  his  vestments  on,  and  the 
people  knelt  down  before  the  altar. 
He  began  by  reading  some  prayers  in 
French ;  then  he  preached  a  short  ser- 
mon. D'Auban,  who  was  to  serve  his 
Mass,  was  standing  a  little  behind  him. 
He  saw  that  the  congregation  was  still 
gradually  increasing;  more  and  more 
Indians  were  approaching  from  various 
directions ;  quietly,  unobtrusively,  they 
drew  near.  There  was  no  sound  of 
feet  on  the  smooth  grass.  They  stood 
in  a  respectful  attitude,  motionless  like 
statues ;  rank  after  rank  of  these  sable 
forms  ranged  themselves  around  the 
worshippers';  not  a  footfall,  not  a  whis- 
per was  heard ;  it  was  like  the  snow- 
drift which  accumulates  noiselessly  in 
the  silence  of  night ;  nothing  was  heard 
but  the  voice  of  the  preacher.  When 
the  sermon  was  ended,  and  he  had  given 
his  blessing,  he  turned  towards  the  altar. 
D'Auban  glanced  at  the  spot  where  his 
wife  and  his  child  were  kneeling,  with 
their  heads  bowed  down  to  receive  that 
blessing,  and  in  that  one  glance  he  took 
in  the  aspect  of  the  whole  field ;  it  was 
now  crowded  with  Indians;  not  one 
spot  was  left  unoccupied,  not  one  issue 
open.  The  Pere  Maret  began  Mass. 

"  Judica  me,  Deus,  et  discerne  cau- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


135 


earn  meara  de  gentc  non  sancta.  Ab 
homine  iniquo  et  doloso  erue  me." 
With  what  a  strange  force  and  mean- 
ing those  words  fall  on  d'Auban's  car ! 
The  alternate  sentences  are  uttered. 
The  Confiteor  is  said,  first  by  the  priest, 
and  then  ty  the  server  in  the  name  of 
the  people.  Then  the  priest  goes  up  to 
the  altar,  first  to  the  right  side  to  read 
the  Introit,  a  short  passage  from  the 
Scriptures ;  then  to  the  centre,  to  cry 
out  for  mercy  for  himself  and  others. 
"  Kyrie  Eleyson,"  he  says.  "  Kyrie 
Eleyson,"  answers  the  server.  Ay ! 
God  have  mercy  on  them  both  !  God 
have  mercy  on  all  present ! 

A  shot  is  fired,  and  the  priest  falls 
upon  the  flowery  sod  at  the  foot  of  the 
altar,  beneath  the  cloudless  sky,  in  the 
bright  sunshine,  robed  in  his  white  vest- 
ments ;  like  a  soldier  on  duty  struck 
down  at  his  post.  D'Auban's  first 
movement  is  towards  him.  He  kneels 
by  his  prostrate  form.  The  wound  is 
mortal;  life  ebbing  fast.  One  last 
word  the  dying  man  struggles  to  utter. 
D'Auban  puts  his  ear  close  to  his  lips. 
"  The  young  Indian,  Ontara,"  he  whis- 
pers, and  then  he  breathes  a  sigh  and 
dies.  When  d'Auban  raised  his  head 
the  scene  before  him  was  one  of  wild 
and  horrible  confusion;  the  work  of 
slaughter  had  begun.  A  cry  of  despair 
burst  from  him.  Paralyzed  one  mo- 
ment by  the  hopelessness  of  the  calam- 
ity, he  stood  like  one  transfixed,  his 
eyes  turned  towards  the  spot  where  he 
had  last  seen  the  treasures  of  his  heart ; 
the  next  he  made  a  desperate  rush  in 
that  direction,  but  crowds  of  armed  In- 
dians encircled  him  on  every  side.  The 
shrieks  of  the  murdered  were  in  his 
ears.  The  bodies  of  his  dead  country- 
men flung  at  his  feet.  "Kill  him," 
cried  the  Indian  who  seemed  to  com- 
mand the  rest.  "  Kill  the  companion 
of  the  Black  Robe !  Destroy  every 
Frenchman  1  Slay  every  white  man  I 
Let  not  one  escape  to  tell  the  fate  of 


the  others  1  But  do  not  kill  the  women 
and  children;  the  Great  Sun  of  our 
tribe  orders  that  they  shall  be  kept  as 
slaves."  D'Auban  caught  the  sense 
of  these  words,  and  though  his  brain 
seemed  on  fire,  he  was  in  the  full  pos- 
session of  his  senses.  Quick  as  light- 
ning the  thought  struck  him,  that  to 
surrender  his  life  at  that  moment  was 
to  doom  his  loved  ones  to  hopeless 
misery.  If  God  gave  him  strength  to 
make  his  escape,  help  might  yet  be  ob- 
tained. To  save  himself  was  to  save 
them.  The  blood  rushed  back  to  his 
heart,  and  strength  returned  to  his 
limbs.  With  a  wordless  prayer  to  the 
God  of  Samson  and  of  Joshua,  and  a 
passionate  invocation  to  the  Immacu- 
late Mother,  he  dashed  his  powerful 
frame  against  his  numberless  foes,  and 
made  his  way  through  the  infuriated 
crowd,  who  shrunk  back  appalled  by 
his  apparently  superhuman  strength. 
Once,  when  surrounded  and  all  but 
overwhelmed  by  a  rush  of  assailants, 
a  young  Indian  sprang  upon  him,  and 
seemed  about  to  drag  him  down  to  the 
earth ;  but,  by  a  sudden  movement,  he 
threw  himself  back  on  his  advancing 
countrymen,  checked  them  for  an  in- 
stant, and  opened  for  d'Auban  a  pas- 
sage through  their  ranks.  During  the 
instant  he  had  grappled  with  him  he 
whispered  in  his  ear,  "  Do  not  fear  for 
the  white  woman  and  her  child ;  Onta- 
ra will  protect  them."  With  a  speed 
which  baffled  even  the  swift-footed 
Indians,  d'Auban  ran  towards  the  river, 
and  sprang  into  the  canoe  of  the  barge 
with  which  one  of  his  boatmen  had 
remained  the  night  before.  Cutting 
with  a  knife  the  rope  that  fastened  it 
to  the  shore,  both  began  to  row  for 
their  lives.  The  natives  pursued  them. 
They  had  boats  also.  They  had  sworn 
by  the  great  Sun  that  not  a  white  man 
should  escape.  Arrows  whizzed  in  the 
ears  of  the  pursued,  and  the  savages 
were  gaining  upou  them.  For  one  in- 


136 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


stant — it  was  a  desperate  expedient — 
d'Auban  laid  down  the  oars,  and 
seized  the  fowling-piece  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  the  barge.  He  levelled  it  at 
them.  The  pursuers,  terrified  at  the 
sight  of  the  gun,  dashed  aside  and 
slackened  their  speed.  He  loaded  the 
piece  and  fired.  "  It  is  a  phantom 
boat,"  cried  the  Indians,  "no  mortal 
man  could  row  so  fast ! "  and  they 
turned  back.  After  some  hours,  dur- 
ing which  d'Auban  had  to  keep  up,  by 
promises  and  encouragements,  the  cour- 
age of  the  man  who  shared  with  him 
the  desperate  exertions  of  those  fearful 
moments,  he  laid  down  his  oars,  and 
steered  to  the  shore. 

"  Is  this  the  way  to  the  French  fort  ? " 
asked  his  companion,  who  supposed 
they  were  making  for  Baton  Rouge. 

"  No,"  answered  d'Auban ;  "  by  this 
time  the  French  at  the  fort  are  probably 
massacred.  But  hence  we  can  proceed 
to  the  district  of  the  Choktaws,  a  tribe 
which  hates  the  Natches,  and  to  whom 
the  tale  we  have  to  tell  will  be  like  the 
sound  of  their  own  war-cry.  You  may 
follow  or  leave  me  as  you  please.  Nay, 
you  had  better  take  the  boat,  and  carry 
the  intelligence  of  the  massacre  to  the 
first  European  settlement  you  can  reach, 
and  tell  the  commander  or  the  resident, 
whoever  he  may  be,  in  the  name  of  hu- 
manity, to  concert  with  his  neighbours 
immediate  measures  of  relief  for  the 
captives." 

Then  d'Auban  plunged  into  the 
woods,  and  hurried  on  his  way  to  a 
village  of  Choktaw  Indians  not  far 
from  the  stream.  There  he  made  an 
appeal  to  the  inhabitants,  and  with 
their  own  sort  of  wild  eloquence  called 
upon  them  to  rise  and  follow  him  to 
the  rescue  of  the  wives  and  children  of 
the  white  tribe.  The  flame  which  his 
words  kindled  spread  from  wigwam  to 
wigwam,  awakening  the  fierce  antipa- 
thies of  race  as  well  as  rousing  the  sym- 
pathy of  men  whose  hearts  were  stirred 


within  them  by  the  expressions  of  an- 
guish which  broke  forth  from  a  heart 
torn  by  conflicting  emotions  of  hope 
and  of  terror.  The  appeal  of  the  white 
man  was  heard.  The  chief  of  the  tribe 
rose  like  a  lion  from  his  lair;  seven 
hundred  warriors  gathered  round  his 
standard,  and,  with  tomahawk  in  hand, 
marched  under  d'Auban's  guidance 
across  the  pathless  savannah  and  the 
primaeval  forest,  towards  the  sunny 
plain  where  the  Natches  were  triumph- 
ing over  the  slaughter  of  the  white  men, 
and  insulting  the  pale  women  and  the 
scared  children  of  the  murdered  French. 

It  took  days  to  prepare,  days  to  ef- 
fect this  march;  days  that  were  like 
centuries  of  anguish ;  days  during  which 
d'Auban's  hair  turned  white,  and  lines 
were  stamped  on  his  forehead  which 
time  never  effaced. 

When  Madame  d'Auban  had  seen 
the  Pere  Maret  fall,  she  had  risen  to 
her  feet,  and  stretched  her  arms  tow- 
ards her  husband,  whom  she  had  caught 
sight  of  for  an  instant  supporting  the 
form  of  the  dying  priest.  But  soon  she 
could  discern  nothing  more  amidst  the 
dreadful  scene  which  ensued.  She 
could  only,  in  a  half-kneeling,  half-sit- 
ting posture,  clasp  her  child  to  her 
breast,  and  listen  with  a  cold  shudder 
to  the  shrieks  of  the  dying  and  the 
savage  yells  of  the  murderers. 

In  a  short  time  she  felt  her  arm  grasp- 
ed, and  looking  up  in  speechless  terror 
at  the  Indian  who  had  seized  it,  she 
heard  him  say,  "You  are  my  slave, 
pale-faced  daughter  of  the  white  man. 
Henceforward  you  shall  serve  as  the 
black  skins  have  served  the  children  of 
the  Sun." 

Mina,  who  understood  the  language 
of  the  natives  better  than  her  mother, 
pushed  back  the  Indian  with  her  little 
hands,  and  cried  out,  "  "Where  is  Ontara, 
the  son  of  the  Woman  Chief?  Ontara ! " 
she  cried  out  in  her  childish,  shrill,  and 
yet  sweet  voice.  "Ontara!  help."  The 


• 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


137 


boy  she  thus  called  appeared  at  that 
moment  in  sight.  He  rushed  to  the 
spot  where  both  mother  and  child  were 
wringing  their  hands,  and  refusing  to 
follow  the  Indian,  whose  hands  were 
dripping  with  blood.  He  flourished 
his  tomahawk  over  the  head  of  the  lat- 
ter—bade him  with  a  torrent  of  impre- 
cations resign  his  captives,  who  were 
the  slaves,  he  said,  of  his  mother  the 
Woman  Chief,  and  making  a  sign  to 
Mina,  he  prepared  to  lead  them  away. 
The  child,  less  bewildered  than  her 
mother,  and  full  of  confidence  in  the 
protection  of  her  playmate  of  the  pre- 
ceding day,  whispered  to  her,  "  Come, 
mother,  come  away !  They  will  kill  us 
if  we  stay  here.  That  dreadful  man 
will  come  back  again  before  my  father 
returns  to  help  us." 

Madame  d'Auban  rose,  and,  with 
eyes  glazed  with  despair,  gazed  on  the 
frightful  scene — the  lifeless  corpses,  the 
deserted  altar  with  its  red  and  white 
flowers  still  unfaded,  and  the  blood 
running  on  all  sides. 

"  Henri ! "  she  cried  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  Henri  !  have  they  murdered  you,  my 
beloved  ? "  Wild  with  grief,  and  drag- 
ging Mina  by  the  hand,  she  rushed  to 
the  spot  where  the  priest  was  lying 
dead,  and  falling  on  her  knees  by  the 
lifeless  form,  she  clasped  her  hands, 
and,  as  if  he  who  had  been  as  an  angel 
of  God  to  her  on  earth  could  still  hear 
her  voice,  she  cried  out,  "  O  Father, 
dear  Father!  where  is  he?"  No  au- 
dible answer  came  from  the  icy  lips. 
The  eyes  which  had  looked  so  kindly 
upon  her  in  life,  did  not  turn  towards 
her  now.  But  from  that  face,  calm  and 
beautiful  in  the  serenity  of  death— from 
the  silent  lips  which  for  so  many  years 
had  uttered  none  but  words  of  holiness 
and  peace,  an  answer  came  in  that  hour 
of  distracting  woe,  as  if  speaking  from 
the  grave  or  from  the  skies  where  the 
pure  spirit  had  fled.  She  bowed  down 
to  the  ground,  e'en  as  by  a  martyrs 


side,  and  reverently  kissed  the  hand 
which  had  so  often  blest  her,  and  then, 
with  a  great  patience  and  a  great 
strength,  she  raised  her  eyes  first  to  the 
cloudless  sky,  and  then  once  more  on 
that  scene  of  horror  and  desolation, 
where  neither  amongst  the  living  nor 
the  dead  could  she  see  her  husband. 

"Fiat  voluntas  tua,"  she  murmured 
with  a  sublime  effort  of  resignation, 
always  more  difficult  during  the  anguish 
of  suspense  than  in  the  hour  of  hope- 
less certainty. 

The  Indian  boy  had  followed  them, 
and  was  gazing  with  an  unmoved  coun- 
tenance on  the  features  of  the  dead. 
"  Follow  me,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
palace  of  his  mother  the  Woman  Chief. 
When  they  had  arrived  there,  he  ushered 
the  captives  into  her  presence.  She 
was  seated  on  a  mat  surrounded  by  her 
attendants.  The  young  chief  said  some- 
thing to  her,  and  she  nodded  assent 
He  made  a  sign  to  Mina  to  approach. 
The  child  looked  up  into  the  face  that 
was  looking  kindly  upon  her,  and  said, 
with  a  burst  of  tears,  "  My  father !  give 
me  back  my  father  ! " 

The  Woman  Chief  shook  her  head, 
and  answered,  "  All  the  white  men  must 
die.  But  the  child  of  the  white  man 
shall  live  and  serve  the  children  of  the 
Sun!" 

Mina  gave  a  piercing  cry.  Ontara 
led  her  away,  and  whispered  in  her 
ear,  "  Straight  as  an  arrow  from  a  bow, 
and  swiftly  as  a  feather  before  the  wind, 
the  White  Chief  has  gone  down  the 
river,  far  from  the  land  of  the  Natches." 

Mina  ran  to  her  mother,  clasped  her 
arms  round  her  neck,  and  said  to  her 
in  a  low  voice,  "  My  father  is  yet  alive  ! 
He  is  gone  down  the  river.  The  young 
chief  says  so." 

"Then  there  is  still  hope  for  us," 
murmured  Madame  d'Auban,  as  she 
pressed  her  child  to  her  heart.  "  God 
is  merciful  I  That  hope  makes  life  en- 
durable, and  for  thy  sake,  and  perhaps 


138 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


for  his,  I  must  try  to  live,  my 
Mina." 

And  then  she,  who  had  already 
gone  through  so  many  and  strange 
vicissitudes,  the  daughter  and  the  sis- 
ter of  princes,  the  spoilt  child  of  her 
father's  little  Court,  the  victim  of  the 
fierce  Czarowitz,  the  whilom  happy 
wife  of  the  French  colonist,  began 
that  night  her  work  as  the  slave  of 
her  Indian  captors — meekly,  courage- 
ously, as  one  who  had  been  schooled 
in  the  lessons  of  the  Cross. 

All  the  wives  and  children  of  the 
murdered  Frenchmen  were  condemned 
to  the  same  doom,  and  in  the  anguish 
of  bereavement,  some  of  them  with 
nerves  and  feelings  almost  to  phrensy 
sore,  many  of  them  without  any  reli- 
gious support  and  consolation — for  a 
great  number  of  these  European  emi- 
grants, through  neglecting  to  practise 
their  religion,  had  almost  lost  their 
faith — found  themselves  in  presence 
of  the  greatest  imaginable  calamity 
without  any  human  prospect  of  re- 
lief. 

Their  Indian  masters  exulted  in 
their  presence  at  the  tragical  fate  of 
their  victims,  and  spoke  openly  of  the 
massacre  which  was  to  take  place  on 
a  particular  day,  at  every  place  where 
there  were  French  settlements  amongst 
all  the  tribes  on  the  shores  of  the  Mis- 
sissipi,  as  far  as  the  great  lakes  beyond 
its  sources,  or  the  sea  at  its  mouth. 
Not  one  Frenchman,  they  boasted, 
would  survive  to  carry  the  news  to 
the  land  they  came  from.  The  new 
French  city,  and  every  fort  and  habita- 
tion in  the  country,  would  be  levelled 
to  the  ground,  and  the  Indians  who 
had  learnt  the  Frenchman's  prayer, 
and  who  tried  to  save  the  life  of  a 
black  robe,  were  to  be  tied  to  a  stake 
and  burnt  at  a  slow  fire. 

The  usefulness  of  their  new  slaves 
induced  the  savages  to  spare  their 
lives,  and  even  to  treat  them  with 


some  degree  of  humanity.  This  was 
at  least  in  most  instances  the  case. 
They  were  delighted  to  make  the 
European  women  sew  and  make  up 
garments  for  them  out  of  the  skins  of 
beasts  and  the  pieces  of  cloth  seized 
at  the  Fort  where  M.  Chepar  and  all 
his  companions  had  been  murdered. 
The  arrival  of  several  carts  laden  with 
goods  at  that  military  station  a  day 
or  two  before  had  excited  the  covet- 
ousness  of  the  chiefs  and  the  sachems, 
and  induced  them  to  hurry  operations 
and  give  the  signal  of  murder  and 
plunder  before  the  day  appointed  for 
a  simultaneous  rising  throughout  the 
colony.  The  sight  of  some  of  these 
articles  of  European  manufacture  drew 
tears  from  the  eyes  of  the  poor  cap- 
tives, who  saw  in  them  many  a  remem- 
brance of  their  native  land.  Homely 
bits  of  furniture ;  pieces  of  cloth  and 
linen  which  bore  the  stamp  of  some 
manufacturing  town  which  some  of 
them  had  once  inhabited;  cups  and 
glasses  and  plates  such  as  were  in  com- 
mon use  amongst  the  bourgeoisie  of 
that  epoch,  and  many  of  these  things 
were  wrapt  up  in  numbers  of  the 
"  Mercure,"  or  the  "  Gazette  de  France," 
or  the  "Journal  de  Trevoux,"  which 
were  read  with  eagerness  and  wept 
over  by  the  women,  before  whose  eyes 
rose  in  those  moments  visions  of  some 
old  picturesque  French  town,  or  of 
some  valley  in  Provence  or  in  Norman- 
dy, or  of  the  narrow  streets  of  Paris — 
a  city  which  always  preserves  a  power- 
ful hold  on  the  affections  of  those  who 
have  been  born  and  bred  within  its 
precincts.  Dreams  of  its  bright  river, 
its  quaint  buildings,  sunny  quays,  and 
shady  gardens,  have  haunted  an  exile's 
sleep  full  as  often  as  the  snowy  sum 
mits  of  the  Swiss  Alps  or  the  golden 
groves  and  myrtle  bowers  of  Italy. 

Madame  d'Auban  and  her  daughter 
were  treated  gently  enough,  owing  to 
the  protection  of  the  young  chief 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


139 


Ontara.  Their  cleverness  at  needle- 
work also  obtained  for  them  the  good 
graces  of  the  woman  Sun,  who  was 
delighted  to  appear  before  her  subjects 
decked  in  European  finery.  Most  of 
their  time  was  spent  in  this  employ- 
ment. They  sat  on  the  grass  in  a  grove 
of  acacias  behind  the  palace  hut,  and 
worked  several  hours  a  day.  Madame 
d'Auban  found  relief  in  this  manual 
labour  to  her  tormenting  thoughts. 
Mina  helped  her  eagerly  or  wearily, 
according  to  the  mood  of  the  moment. 
Children  cannot  endure  the  ceaseless 
pressure  of  sorrow  or  anxiety.  When 
the  uncertainty  about  her  father's  fate 
pressed  upon  her,  she  hid  her  head  in 
her  mother's  bosom,  and  gave  way  to 
passionate  weeping ;  or  when  she  saw 
that  mother  looking  pale  and  worn 
and  working  like  a  slave,  her  zeal  in 
assisting  her  was  unbounded.  But  if 
her  friends  the  Indian  youths  appeared, 
the  wish  to  play  was  irresistible. 

Both  the  young  chiefs  neglected 
other  amusements,  and  even  the  more 
serious  business  of  hunting  and  fishing, 
in  order  to  play  with  the  little  white 
maiden,  who  was  to  them  a  perfect 
vision  of  beauty  and  delight.  It  was 
a  pretty  sight,  the  fair  captive  child 
sitting  under  a  hedge  of  oleanders  be- 
tween her  two  Indian  playmates,  who 
were  like  each  other  as  to  colouring 
and  features,  but  whose  countenances 
were  strikingly  dissimilar.  There  was 
something  noble  and  refined  in  Ontara's 
person  and  manners — a  gentleness 
which,  in  a  European,  would  have 
been  thought  good  breeding.  His 
movements  were  slow  and  graceful, 
and  his  eyes  had  the  pensive,  almost 
mournful,  expression  peculiar  to  his 
race.  Osseo's  face  was  a  cunning  one, 
and  if  any  thing  irritated  him  a  malig- 
nant light  gleamed  in  his  deep-set  eyes, 
which  were  at  those  moments  more 
like  those  of  an  angry  animal  than  of 
a  man.  He  was  related  to  the  royal 


family,  but  not  a  son  of  the  reigning 
sovereign.  His  wonderful  quickness 
and  agility  had  made  him  a  favourite 
with  the  young  chief.  They  were  con- 
stant companions,  and  equally  devoted 
to  the  little  white  captive. 

One  day  Ontara  brought  her  a  clus- 
ter of  the  waxen  blossoms  of  the 
Mimosa.  She  wove  them  into  a  wreath, 
and  with  some  beautiful  feathers  Osseo 
had  just  given  her,  made  a  crown 
which  she  laughingly  placed  on  her 
head.  A  sudden  gloom  darkened  On- 
tara's brow,  and  he  spoke  angrily  to 
Osseo.  Angry  glances  and  gestures 
followed.  Mina  instantly  pulled  to 
pieces  both  the  garland  and  the  crown, 
and  making  a  nosegay  of  the  feathers 
and  the  flowers,  placed  it  in  her  breast. 
She  had  caught  the  habit  of  expressing 
her  thoughts  by  signs,  and  was  as 
quick  as  the  Indians  themselves  in  the 
use  of  symbols. 

Osseo  pointed  to  the  nosegay  and 
said,  "  The  flowers  will  be  dead  and 
drop  off  to-morrow,  but  the  feathers 
will  live  in  the  maiden's  bosom  till  she 
is  as  tall  as  her  mother." 

Again  a  dark  look  gathered  over 
Ontara's  brow,  but  Mina  hastened  to 
reply— "The  leaves  may  lose  their 
colour,  but  they  smell  sweetly  even 
when  they  are  dry  and  dead.  The 
feathers  never  smell  at  all.  But  they 
are  very  pretty,"  she  added,  with  such 
a  bright  smile  that  Osseo  exclaimed : — 

"In  your  eyes,  little  white  maiden, 
there  is  a  more  powerful  fetish  than  the 
one  I  carry  in  my  bosom ; "  and  thrust- 
ing his  hand  in  his  breast,  he  showed 
the  head  of  a  serpent. 

Mina  shuddered,  and  said  that  a 
fetish  was  a  bad  thing,  and  that  she 
hated  serpents.  There  was  no  fetish 
in  her  eyes,  she  was  certain,  and  no 
serpent  in  her  breast. 

On  the  following  morning,  Osseo 
came  to  the  Acacia  Grove,  and  told 
Mina  to  come  with  him  into  the  woods, 


140 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


and  that  lie  would  give  her  more  beau- 
tiful flowers  than  Ontara  had  brought 
her  the  day  before,  and  a  bird  that 
would  imitate  the  sound  of  her  voice. 
She  looked  wistfully  at  her  mother, 
for  she  longed  to  run  across  the  fields 
into  the  forest ;  but  Madame  d'Auban 
shook  her  head,  and  bade  her  sit  down 
to  her  work.  She  told  Osseo  that 
Mina  belonged  to  the  woman  chief, 
and  could  not  go  out  without  her  leave. 
Osseo's  eyes  gleamed  with  anger,  and 
he  threatened  to  drag  the  -child  away. 
He  said  she  was  his  slave,  and  he  would 
compel  her  to  go  with  him.  Terrified 
at  this  youth's  looks  and  manner,  Mad- 
ame d'Auban  resolved  to  place  Mina 
under  Ontara's  protection.  She  felt  an 
instinctive,  confidence  in  his  generous 
nature,  and  knew  well  that  if  an  In- 
dian once  adopts  any  one  as  his  sister 
or  his  child,  he  faithfully  fulfils  the 
duties  he  thus  assumes.  So  the  next 
time  the  young  chief  came  to  the 
palace,  she  made  him  understand  that 
Osseo  called  Mina  his  slave,  and  threat- 
ened to  carry  her  away.  "  Will  you 
protect  her,  Ontara  ?  "  The  eyes  of  the 
Indian  boy  had  flashed  fire  when  he 
heard  of  Osseo's  threats;  and  when 
Mina's  mother  made  her  appeal,  he 
made  a  sign  to  them  both  to  follow 
him.  He  led  the  way  to  the  assembly 
of  the  sachem,  and,  in  the  presence  of 
the  Sun  his  father,  he  solemnly,  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  his  tribe,  made 
her  his  sister ;  and  as  a  token  of  this 
adoption,  he  placed  his  hand  on  her 
head,  threatening  at  the  same  time, 
with  a  loud  voice,  death  to  any  one 
who  should  molest  her.  "  She  is  my 
sister,"  he  cried.  "  She  has  returned 
from  the  land  beyond  the  grave.  She 
went  away  when  the  leaves  were  falling 
off  the  trees,  and  now  she  has  come 
back  with  the  green  leaves  and  the 
flowers,  with  golden  hair  and  sunny 
eyes.  No  one  shall  dare  to  touch  her. 
She  is  a  daughter  of  the  Sun." 


Madame  d'Auban  looked  gratefully 
at  their  young  protector,  and  raised 
her  hand  to  her  lips — a  token  of  friend- 
ship which  he  understood. 

Mina  was  overjoyed.  "I  have  a 
brother  now,"  she  cried,  and  threw 
her  arms  round  the  boy's  neck.  There 
was  something  entirely  new  to  the  In- 
dian youth  in  the  child's  innocent  affec- 
tion, and  in  her  way  of  showing  it.  It 
touched  a  chord  in  his  heart  which  had 
never  yet  been  moved.  From  that 
moment  she  became  dearer  to  him  than 
aught  else  on  earth.  Her  mother's 
trust  in  him,  her  soft  kiss,  and  the 
name  of  "brother"  which  she  gave 
him,  made  life  a  different  thing  to 
Ontara  from  what  it  had  yet  been.  He 
had  never  shed  a  tear — his  countrymen 
do  not  weep — but  a  strange  sensation 
rose  in  his  throat,  and  he  turned  away, 
not  understanding  what  it  could  mean. 

On  one  of  the  long  weary  days  which 
had  elapsed  since  that  of  the  massacre, 
Madame  d'Auban  was  sitting  at  her 
work  on  the  grass  near  their  hut.  and 
Mina  by  her  side.  A  Frenchwoman, 
who  was  carrying  a  pitcher  on  her 
shoulder,  stopped  to  speak  to  them  on 
her  way  to  the  well.  She  was  the 
widow  of  M.  Lenoir,  one  of  the  mur- 
dered officers  at  the  fort,  and  a  slave  in 
the  chief's  palace. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  "Another 
companion  in  adversity!  May  I  ask 
your  name,  Madame  ? " 

"  Madame  d'Auban." 

"Ah!  Madame  d'Auban— the  wife 
of  the  .  .  .  Should  I  say  the  late — 
Colonel  d'Auban?" 

It  is  easier  under  certain  circumstan- 
ces to  bear  positive  unkindness  than  an 
irreverent,  well-meaning  handling  of  a 
throbbing  wound  in  our  hearts ;  and 
perhaps  the  greatest  trial  of  all  is  the 
sympathy  expressed  by  those  who  think 
their  sorrows  are  like  our  sorrows,  when 
they  no  more  resemble  them  than  the 
prick  of  a  pin  does  the  stab  of  a  dagger. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


141 


"All! "sighed Madame Lenoir.  "My 
poor  dear  husband  1  He  would  come 
to  this  horrid  country  to  make  his  for- 
tune, and  Fortune  has  played  him  a 
terrible  trick  1  He  was  one  of  the  first 
killed  by  those  demons  that  dreadful 
morning." 

"  Were  you  here,  Madame  ?  and  was 
your  husband  also  massacred  ? " 

Madame  d'Auban  felt  as  if  she  was 
laid  on  the  rack.  "  I  live  in  hope  .  .  ." 
she  murmured,  but  could  not  finish  her 
sentence. 

"My  father  was  not  killed,"  said 
Mina.  "  I  am  sure  he  will  come  back 
and  take  us  away." 

"  Ah !  M.  d'Auban  escaped.  Je  vous 
en  fais  mon  compliment.  It  was,  in- 
deed, a  piece  of  luck.  I  wish  my  poor 
dear  husband  had  been  as  fortunate ! 
But  he  was  what  I  call  an  unlucky  per- 
son. If  there  was  a  possibility  of  get- 
ting into  a  scrape  or  a  difficulty,  he 
was  always  sure  to  do  so.  I  used  to 
say  to  him,  *  My  friend,  nothing  ever 
succeeds  with  you.  You  were  certainly 
born  under  an  unlucky  star.  The  Fates 
did  not  smile  on  your  cradle.  You 
never  do  the  right  thing  for  yourself/ 
Ah !  poor  man,  he  used  to  shake  his 
head  and  say,  ( Well,  my  dear,  I  al- 
most think  you  are  right.  I  never 
took  an  important  step  in  life  that 
I  did  not  repent  of  it.'  You  see 
he  had  great  confidence  in  my  judg- 
ment." 

"  Was  yours  a  happy  marriage,  my 
dear  Madame  ?  Oh  !  pardon  me,  if  I 
distress  you.  Our  common  sorrows — 
for  no  doubt  you  are  not  quite  easy 
about  your  excellent  husband's  fate, 
even  though  you  are  so  much  less  to 
be  pitied  than  I  am — seem  to  me  to 
establish  quite  an  intimacy  between 
us.  Is  this  charming  young  lady  your 
only  child,  Madame  ? " 

Mina  gave  a  quick  glance  at  Madame 
d'Auban's  face.  The  talkative  stranger 
had  trod  unawares  on  the  sacred  ground 


which  her  mother  and  herself  never 
approached  but  on  their  knees. 

"  She  is  my  only  little  girl,"  Madame 
d'Auban  nervously  said,  and  hastened 
to  ask — "  Have  you  any  children,  Mad- 
ame Lenoir  ? " 

"No;  and  indeed  I  am  very  glad 
of  it.  M.  Lenoir  used  to  regret  it ;  but 
I  have  said  to  him,  many  times  since 
we  came  to  this  country,  'Who  was 
right  on  that  question,  M.  Lenoir  ?  I 
suppose  you  will  admit  that  a  wife  is 
quite  a  sufficient  encumbrance,  as  you 
stand  at  present  situated  ? '  '  Oh, 
quite  sufficient,  my  dear,  quite  suf- 
ficient,' he  would  answer.  I  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say  he  did  not  often 
contradict  me.  If  I  had  had  any  chil- 
dren, I  should  have  been  dreadfully 
afraid  of  their  becoming  like  those 
young  Indian  devils." 

"  The  Indians  are  not  all  devils,"  cried 
Mina.  "  I  love  the  Indians." 

"  O  fie  !  mademoiselle  !  Love  those 
wicked  Indians  who  murdered  the 
good  priest  and  my  poor  M.  Lenoir, 
and  all  the  Frenchmen !  It  was  not 
their  fault,  I  suppose,  that  your  papa 
escaped  ? " 

"  It  was  one  of  them  that  helped  him 
to  escape,  I  know ;  and  I  love  him  and 
our  brave  Illinois,  and  the  Choktaws, 
and  the  Dacotahs,  and  many  others." 

"  I  have  never  heard,"  cried  Madame 
Lenoir,  "  of  all  those  savages  you  speak 
of,  little  lady ;  but  I  know  that,  for  my 
part,  I  should  like  to  see  every  Indian 
burnt  alive,  and  their  horrid  country 
swallowed  up  in  the  sea." 

"  And  I  should  like  to  see  you  in  the 
sea,  and  I  should  not  pull  you  out," 
cried  Mina,  choking  with  passion. 

"  Oh,  you  little  monster ! "  exclaimed 
Madame  Lenoir. 

"  Mina,  what  are  you  saying  ? "  said 
her  mother,  in  a  severe  manner. 

"  But,  mother,  why  does  she  say  such 
wicked  things  ?  Because  there  are  some 
cruel  Indians,  must  we  hate  them  all  ? " 


142 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"  We  must  not  hate  even  the  cruel 
ones,  but  pity  and  pray  for  them." 

"Well,  pious  people  have  strange 
notions  !  "  ejaculated  Madame  Lenoir, 
"  and  they  bring  up  their  children  very 
badly,  I  think.  It  is  very  extraordi- 
nary how  unfeeling  devout  persons  are ! 
Ah !  we  cannot  expect  to  find  much 
sensibility  in  those  who  have  not  known 
what  suffering  is.  Good  evening,  Mad- 
ame d'Auban.  I  had  hoped  we  might 
have  proved  a  comfort  to  each  other  in 
our  mutual  sorrows,  but — " 

"  Do  not  hurry  away,"  Madame  d'Au- 
ban kindly  said.  "Our  trials  are  in- 
deed great ;  and  we  ought  to  try  and 
help  each  other.  Do  not  be  vexed  with 
me." 

"  Oh,  for  that  matter,  I  have  a  very 
happy  disposition  and  a  particularly 
sociable  temper.  But  let  me  advise 
you,  as  a  friend,  not  to  let  that  little 
lady  get  into  the  habit  of  talking  too 
much.  One  never  gets  rid  of  it  in  after- 
life. And  do  not  make  a  devote  of  her. 
Too  much  religion  is  a  bad  thing  for 
children." 

A  faint  shadow  of  a  smile  crossed 
Madame  d'Auban's  lips.  Meantime 
Madame  Lenoir  was  lifting  up  with 
difficulty  her  heavy  pitcher. 

"  It  will  be  heavier  still  when  filled 
with  water,"  she  said,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  and  my  shoulder  is  already 
aching  with  its  weight !  But  I  have 
been  threatened  with  blows  by  a  cross 
old  Indian,  in  case  I  do  not  do  her 
bidding." 

The  poor  woman  sat  down  on  the 
grass,  weeping  bitterly.  It  was  a  sel- 
fish, uninteresting  grief,  but  pitiful  to 
witness — like  the  sufferings  of  a  fly 
crushed  by  a  wheel. 

"  Ah  !  there  is  Ontara,"  cried  Mina, 
clapping  her  hands.  "Now  you  will 
see  that  he  will  help  me  to  fill  your 
pitcher.  May  I  go  to  the  well  with 
him,  mother  ? " 
Madame  d'Auban  assented  for  the 


fountain  was  not  far  off.  The  young 
chief  took  up  the  pitcher,  and  Mina 

aid  her  hand  on  the  handle,  to  help 
lim,  as  she  said,  to  carry  it.  He  look- 

d  at  the  little  white  hand  with  won- 
der and  admiration.  He  did  not  know 
any  thing  about  gloves,  or  he  might 
have  exclaimed,  like  Romeo  : 

0  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand ! 

Mina  talked  to  him  eagerly  as  they 
walked  along;  and  he  called  her  his 
"  white  lily,"  his  "  beautiful  Wenouah." 

When  they  had  reached  the  foun- 
tain, and  were  letting  down  the  pitch- 
er into  the  water,  she  said : 

"  Oh  !  how  I  do  wish  .  ."  and  there 
stopped  short. 

"What  does  my  flower  wish?" 
Ontara  asked.  "Name  thy  wish,  and 
I  will  ask  my  father  the  Sun  to  give 
thee  whatsoever  thou  desirest." 

"I  do  not  want  any  thing  he  can 
give  me.  What  I  wish  is,  to  see  a 
black-robe  pour  water  on  my  brother's 
head,  and  speak  the  words  which 
would  make  him  a  Christian." 

"  The  chief  of  prayer  is  no  more. 
I  have  sung  his  death-song  in  my 
heart.  He  can  never  again  speak  to 
the  living." 

"  But  there  are  other  black-robes — 
other  chiefs  of  prayer  ? " 

"They  must  all  be  killed  by  this 
time.  Think  no  more  of  them,  little 
dove  of  the  white  man's  tribe,  and 
speak  not  to  Ontara  of  the  French 
prayer.  He  is  a  child  of  the  Sun,  and 
worships  his  father." 

"  But  I  know  he  carries  a  crucifix  in 
his  bosom,"  Mina  eagerly  cried,  point- 
ing to  the  Indian's  breast. 

"My  father,  Outalissi,  gave  it  me; 
and  for  his  sake  I  keep  it  close  to  my 
heart." 

At  that  moment  Osseo  joined  them. 
Mina  was  not  afraid  of  him  when  her 
new  brother  was  by  her  side.  He  was 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


143 


much  excited,  and  cried  out,  as  soon 
as  he  saw  them  : 

"  I  have  discovered  the  fetish  which 
the  great  sorcerer  of  the  Abnakis  pos- 
sessed. He  told  me  of  it  some  time 
ago,  and  I  have  been  searching  for  it 
ever  since." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Ontara  asked. 

Osseo  drew  a  small  serpent  from  his 
bosom  :  "I  have  charmed  it  to  sleep," 
he  said,  as  Mina  drew  back  affrighted. 
"  It  will  not  wake  till  I  bid  it.  This 
fetish  is  so  powerful  that  he  who  owns 
it  never  shoots  an  arrow  in  vain,  and 
is  never  conquered  in  battle ;  and  when 
he  goes  out  hunting  he  brings  home 
more  game  than  any  one  else." 

"Throw  it  away,  Osseo;  throw  it 
away,"  Mina  exclaimed.  "It  will  do 
you  no  good." 

"  And  if  I  throw  it  away,"  said  the 
youth,  with  a  sneer,  "will  the  dove 
of  the  white  tribe  nestle  in  my  bosom." 

"  I  will  love  you  very  much,"  Mina 
answered,  fixing  her  large  bright  eyes 
on  the  young  savage. 

"Not  so  much  as  Ontara?"  said 
Osseo,  with  a  malignant  glance  at  the 
young  chief. 

"  Ontara  is  my  brother,"  Mina  an- 
swered, drawing  closer  to  her  pro- 
tector. 

"  And  if  any  one  dares  to  touch  a 
single  hair  of  her  head,"  cried  Ontara, 
"  I  will  take  him  before  the  sachems, 
and  slay  him  where  he  stands." 

A  dark  hue  overspread  the  face  of 
the  other  youth  ;  but  he  made  no  direct 
reply.  Stroking  the  serpent  in  his 
bosom,  he  said  to  the  little  girl : 
"When  five  summers  have  come  and 
gone,  you  shall  choose  which  of  us  you 
will  marry." 

"  I  will  not  marry  you,  and  I  cannot 
marry  him,"  Mina  answered,  with  sim- 
plicity. 

"  Why  not  ? "  said  Ontara,  quickly. 
"  You  are  no  longer  a  slave,  since  you 
have  become  my  sister ;  and  when  you 


are  old  enough  we  shall  stand  before 
the  sachems,  in  the  presence  of  the 
Great  Sun,  and  I  will  make  you  my 
wife." 

Mina  shook  her  head :  "  The  daugh- 
ters of  the  white  men,  her  parents 
said,  did  not  marry  the  sons  of  other 
tribes." 

"  Then  you  will  never  marry  at  all," 
Osseo  fiercely  cried.  "  There  will  not 
be  a  single  white  man  left  to  be  your 
husband.  The  Indians  will  kill  them 
all." 

"No,"  Mina  answered;  "the  great 
God  will  not  let  them  do  it.  He  is 
more  powerful  than  all  your  fetishes." 

"  But  not  than  the  glorious  orb  which 
the  Natches  adore,"  said  Ontara,  point- 
ing to  the  sun,  at  that  moment  setting 
in  a  bed  of  fiery  clouds. 

"The  God  of  the  Christians  made 
the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars," 
Mina  replied,  and  then  she  sat  down 
with  the  two  Indians  on  the  grass  by 
the  well-side,  and  they  talked  of  the 
Natches'  worship  and  the  Christian 
prayer.  A  child's  simple  conceptions 
of  religion  were  more  adapted  to  the 
comprehension  of  these  uncultivated 
minds  than  the  teachings  of  older  per- 
sons. They  listened  eagerly  to  her  words. 
Each  of  them  had  fastened,  as  it  were, 
on  the  side  of  their  false  belief  which 
was  most  in  harmony  with  their  natural 
tendencies.  Osseo's  mind  was  filled 
with  the  gloomy  superstitions  of  devil- 
worship.  His  faith  in  spells  and  charms 
was  unbounded.  He  had  studied  the 
secrets  of  magic  under  the  most  learned 
soothsayers  of  the  neighbouring  tribes, 
and  was  an  adept  in  all  the  arts  of 
witchcraft.  Ontara,  on  the  contrary — 
perhaps  from  an  instinctive  preference 
of  light  to  darkness,  and  also  on  account 
of  his  close  relationship  to  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  orb  of  day — yielded  a 
peculiar  and  exclusive  homage  to  the 
sun.  It  seemed  to  him  to  embody  all 
the  ideas  he  had  ever  formed  of  bright- 


144 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


ness  and  majesty.  At  morn  he  hailed 
its  rising,  at  noon  he  prostrated  him- 
self in  adoration  before  its  dazzling 
beams,  and  saluted  its  setting  with 
hymns  of  praise.  Mina  drew  from  her 
pocket  a  prayer-book,  and  read  to  the 
worshipper  of  the  sun  these  verses  of 
the  Psalms : 

"  '  The  heavens  show  forth  the  glory 
of  God:  and  the  firmament  declareth 
the  work  of  his  hands. 

"  '  Day  to  day  uttereth  speech :  and 
night  to  night  showeth  knowledge. 

" '  There  are  no  speeches  nor  lan- 
guages where  their  voices  are  not  heard. 

".'  Their  sound  has  gone  forth  into 
all  the  earth :  and  their  words  unto  the 
ends  of  the  world. 

"  '  He  hath  set  his  tabernacle  in  the 
sun :  and  he,  as  a  bridegroom  coming 
out  of  his  bride-chamber,  hath  rejoiced 
as  a  giant  to  run  his  way. 

" '  His  going  out  is  from  the  end  of 
heaven,  and  his  circuit  even  to  the  end 
thereof:  and  there  is  no  one  that  can 
hide  himself  from  his  heat.'  " 

Ontara   listened  attentively  to  her 


artless  translation  of  the  sublime  words 
of  holy  writ,  and  made  her  repeat  it 
till  he  learned  the  verses  by  heart. 
Osseo  caressed  the  serpent  in  his  bosom, 
and  said  he  would  belong  to  the  Chris- 
tian prayer  if  it  had  more  powerful 
charms  than  those  of  the  Abnakis. 

"  When  my  arm  has  acquired  its  full 
strength,"  he  exultingly  declared,  "  and 
my  fetish  its  full  growth,  my  name  will 
become  as  famous  as  that  of  the  great 
Oneyda,  or  of  the  wise  Hiawatha,  the 
Son  of  the  West  Wind." 

A  sign  from  her  mother  recalled  Mina 
to  the  palace;  Madame  d'Auban  was 
patiently  listening  to  Madame  Lenoir's 
account  of  the  sad  manner  in  which 
one  of  her  gowns  had  been  cut  up  to 
fit  it  for  an  Indian  woman.  If  it  had 
been  an  act  of  charity  to  fill  her  pitcher, 
it  was  a  greater  one  still  to  let  her  talk 
of  the  dresses  she  had  brought  from 
Paris.  It  comforted  her  more  than 
any  thing  else  could  have  done,  and  she 
went  back  to  her  hard  duties  soothed, 
as  she  declared,  by  Madame  d'Auban's 
sympathy  in  her  trials. 


CHAPTEE    III. 


And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart  ? 
Through  all  that  night  of  bitterest  woe 

She  bore  her  lofty  part. 

The  wind  rose  high ;  but  with  it  rose 

Her  voice,  that  they  might  hear; 
Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  repose 

To  careless  bosoms  near. 
While  she  stood  striving  with  despair, 

And  pouring  her  deep  soul  in  prayer 
Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

Mrs.  ffemans. 


ANOTHER  day  elapsed,  and  another ; 
and  each  time  that  the  sun  set  without . 
any  change  taking  place,  or  any  rumour 
of  help  from  without  cheering  the  cap- 


tives' ears,  it  became  harder  for  them 
to  struggle  against  despair. 

"  Mother,"  Mina  said  at  last,  as  she 
threw  her  arms  round  Madame  d'Au- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


145 


ban's  neck,  "  may  I  go  and  look  for  my 
father  ?  Let  me  slip  out  of  the  hut  at 
night  when  nobody  will  miss  me,  and 
go  to  the  country  of  the  Choktaws,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river.  I  am  sure 
he  is  there." 

"Why  do  you  think  so,  Mina?" 
eagerly  asked  her  mother,  whose  head 
had  been  drooping  on  her  breast  in 
heavy  despondency,  whose  eyes  were 
strained  with  watching,  and  whose  ears 
had  grown  dull  by  the  continual  effort 
to  catch  a  sound  which  might  indicate 
the  approach  of  the  French. 

"My  brother  Ontara  says  so.  He 
has  seen  a  man  who  told  him  that  a 
white  chief  was  raising  a  war-cry 
amongst  the  Choktaws,  and  that  they 
are  taking  up  arms.  He  will  row  me 
across  the  river  if  I  can  get  away  when 
it  is  dark,  because  he  promised  to  do 
whatever  I  asked  him ;  and  he  says  a 
child  of  the  sun  always  keeps  his  prom- 
ises. He  will  show  me  which  way  to 
take,  and  in  what  direction  to  go.  He 
cannot  smoke  the  calumet  to  the  Chok- 
taws, because  they  are  enemies  of  the 
Natches ;  but  I  am  sure  I  shall  find  my 
father,  and  I  will  bring  him  back  with 
ine,  mother." 

"They  watch  us  too  closely,  Mina. 
You  know  that  our  taskmistress  sleeps 
with  her  back  to  the  door  of  the  hut, 
to  prevent  any  chance  of  our  getting 
away.  I  could  not  let  you  go  alone, 
my  child ;  but  if  this  young  Indian  is 
indeed  willing  to  favour  our  escape,  I 
should  be  inclined  to  accept  his  aid." 

"  Ah !  mother,  they  will  not  let  us 
leave  the  hut ;  but  there  is  a  space  be- 
tween the  planks  just  behind  our  mat, 
which  I  have  been  enlarging  with  my 
fingers,  and  by  lying  quite  flat  on  the 
ground  I  think  I  could  creep  out,  if 
you  would  give  me  leave." 

Madame    d'Auban    shuddered,  and 

threw    her    arms    round    her    child. 

"  Mina !  "  she  exclaimed  with  agitation, 

"  promise  me  not  to  stir  from  my  side. 

10 


I  forbid  you  to  think  of  leaving  me — 
not  at  present,  at  least.  I  must  tell 
you,  my  child,  that  a  great  danger 
hangs  over  us.  That  poor  foolish  Mad- 
ame Lenoir  has  been  making  a  plot 
with  the  black  slaves  against  our  In- 
dian masters.  It  cannot  succeed,  and 
if  it  is  discovered  we  shall  be  probably 
all  doomed  to  death.  If  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  I  may  bid  you  fly 
alone.  I  do  not  think  they  would  kill 
you,  but  to  leave  you  in  their  hands 
without  me  would  be  worse  than  death. 
Better  that  you  should  perish  in  the 
woods  seeking  your  father  than  grow 
up  amongst  these  savages.  Mina,  I  may 
not  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
you  again.  One  thing  I  have  to  say  to 
you,  which  you  must  remember  as  long 
as  you  live.  You  are  a  Christian,  and 
the  child  of  European  parents.  You 
must  never  abandon  your  faith,  and 
you  must  never  marry  an  Indian." 

Mina  slipt  off  her  mother's  knees  and 
stood  before  her,  clasping  her  hands 
together. 

"  Then  I  shall  never  marry  at  all, 
mother,  for  I  told  Ontara  that  I  could 
not  be  his  wife,  because  you  say  that 
white  girls  must  not  marry  their  In- 
dian brothers.  But  I  also  promised 
him  that  I  would  never  marry  a  white 
man. 

"That  was  foolish,  my  child,"  an- 
swered her  mother.  "You  are  too 
young  to  make  such  promises.  They 
mean  nothing." 

"  Mother,  I  am  sure  I  shall  keep  that 
promise.  I  am  sure  it  meant  something." 

Madame  d'Auban  felt  annoyed  at  the 
little  girl's  earnestness,  even  though 
she  tried  to  treat  it  as  mere  childish- 
ness. It  was  in  keeping  with  the 
passionate  affection  she  had  always 
shown  for  the  land  of  her  birth  and  its 
native  inhabitants. 

"  If  I  were  to  die,  Mina,  and  you  re- 
mained alone  in  this  country,  what 
would  you  do  ? " 


146 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"I  would  remember  all  you  have 
taught  me,  mother,  and  I  would  try  to 
be  good." 

"  And  if  they  tried  to  make  you  a 
heathen,  like  themselves  ? " 

"  They  should  kill  me  first." 

There  was  at  that  moment  in  the 
child's  face  and  manner  so  strong  a 
resemblance  to  her  father,  that  it  took 
her  poor  mother  by  surprise.  She 
bowed  her  head  on  her  little  daughter's 
bosom,  as  if  seeking  for  support  in  that 
terrible  hour  from  the  brave  heart  in 
that  child's  breast. 

Clasping  each  other  in  a  mute  em- 
brace, they  remained  silent  for  an  in- 
stant, and  then  Madame  Lenoir  came 
running  towards  them  in  wild  affright. 

"  It  is  all  over  with  us,"  she  gasped 
out  in  an  agonized  whisper.  "  It  was 
such  a  beautiful  plot !  and  to  think  it 
should  not  have  succeeded  after  all ! " 
And  she  wrung  her  hands  and  lifted 
up  her  eyes,  without  attending  to  Mad- 
ame d'Auban's  anxious  questions. 

"  Has  it  merely  failed  ?  or  has  it  been 
discovered  ?  "  she  tremblingly  asked. 

"  Discovered !  Yes,  of  course  it  has 
been  discovered.  One  of  those  wretched 
negroes  has  betrayed  us,  and  now  we 
shall  all  be  put  to  death.  Oh  !  that  it 
should  have  come  to  this,  such  a  beau- 
tiful plot  as  it  was !  It  put  me  in  mind 
of  the  Conjuration  de  Cinna  at  Theatre 
Francais.  The  traitor  !  the  black  mon- 
ster !  the  wretch !  .  .  .  Madame  d'Au- 
ban,  you  are  like  a  statue,  like  a  stone ; 
you  feel  nothing." 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  silent ;  give  me 
time  to  think,"  said  Mina's  mother, 
"pressing  her  hands  to  her  brow.  She 
remained  motionless  awhile,  and  when 
she  lifted  up  her  eyes  Ontara  was  stand- 
ing before  her.  He  was  speaking  in  a 
low,  rapid  manner,  with  various  gesti- 
culations, to  Mina. 

"What  does  he  say?"  asked  her 
mother,  who  did  not  well  understand 
the  Natches'  language. 


"He  says  that  at  midnight  all  the 
white  women  and  children  will  be 
taken  to  the  square  in  the  middle  of 
the  village,  and  each  tied  there  to  a 
stake,  and  at  sunrise  they  will  burn 
them  to  death.  He  asked  the  Sun,  his 
father,  not  to  kill  me,  because  I  was 
his  little  sister,  and  that  he  loves  me, 
but  the  Sun  will  not  listen  to  him,  and 
says  the  white-skins  must  all  die.  And 
I  do  not  want  to  live,  if  they  kill  you, 
mother."  She  threw  herself  into  her 
arms,  and  sobbed  on  her  bosom.  "  But, 
oh !  what  will  iny  father  do  ? " 

Again  Ontara  spoke  urgently  to  the 
weeping  child. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  What  does  he 
say  ? "  asked  the  distracted  mother. 

"He  says  if  I  will  creep  out  of  the 
hut  through  that  hole  to-night,  before 
they  carry  us  away  to  the  square,  that 
he  will  wait  for  me  outside,  and  take 
me  to  his  boat  and  across  the  river  to 
the  land  of  the  Choktaws." 

Madame  d'Auban  raised  her  heart  to 
Heaven  for  help  and  for  guidance.  It 
was  a  dreadful  moment.  The  agony 
of  that  decision  was  almost  unbearable. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  with  a  wild,  implor- 
ing expression  on  the  young  Indian's 
face.  He  seemed  to  understand  the 
mute  question,  the  imploring  appeal. 
Quickly  he  drew  the  crucifix  from  his 
breast,  made  the  gesture  which  accord- 
ing to  Indian  custom  signifies  an  oath, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  Mina's  head. 

Madame  d'Auban  knew  that  this 
meant  a  solemn  promise  of  protection. 
She  had  seen  that  the  boy  had  a  good 
heart  and  a  noble  spirit.  She  instinc- 
tively found  words  in  which  to  express, 
in  a  way  he  partly  understood,  that  she 
would  trust  him;  and  Mina  clung  to 
her,  and  said,  "Mother,  do  not  be 
afraid;  Ontara  is  good,  and  I  will 
bring  back  my  father  in  time  to  save 
you." 

The  shades  of  evening  had  fallen; 
the  deepest  silence  reigned  in  the  hut, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


147 


where  the  captives  and  the  Indian 
companions  were  reposing.  Repose — 
strange  word  for  such  an  hour  of  mor- 
tal agony  as  one  of  those  human  beings 
was  enduring,  as  she  lay  motionless  on 
I  the  mat  with  her  child  by  her  side ! 
She  clasped  her  hand  in  her  own,  as  if 
to  make  sure  she  was  not  gone ;  but  go 
she  must,  for  the  words  which  Ontara 
had  spoken  were  true,  and  the  doom 
of  the  captives  had  been  pronounced. 
A  reckless  woman's  fatal  imprudence 
had  done  its  work,  and  the  whole  tribe 
of  the  Natches  risen  in  wild  fury.  They 
would  have  slain  their  victims  at  once, 
had  it  not  been  that  they  rejoiced  in 
the  anticipation  of  their  protracted 
sufferings.  Already  the  European  and 
negro  slaves  were  being  dragged  from 
the  huts  of  their  masters,  and  led  to 
the  centre  of  the  village,  where  the 
sachems  were  assembled.  The  Indians 
were  brandishing  their  tomahawks, 
erecting  stakes,  and  carrying  ropes 
wherewith  to  bind  their  victims.  The 
tramp  of  their  feet,  the  sounds  of  wail- 
ing from  the  women,  and  the  cries  of 
children,  were  heard  in  the  portion  of 
the  palace  where  Madame  d'Auban 
was  confined.  She  felt  there  was  no 
time  to  lose.  Her  lips  were  pressed 
close  to  Mina's  ear.  "My  child,"  she 
whispered,  "  the  time  is  come  when  I 
must  trust  you  to  God  and  to  your 
guardian  angel.  Remember,  my  daugh- 
ter, your  mother's  last  words.  Do  not 
cry,  my  own ;  the  least  sob  might  be 
heard.  Be  always  good,  Mina,  and  the 
Blessed  Virgin  will  be  thy  mother. 
God  bless  thee,  dearest !  Now,  creep 
away;  God  bless  thee;  God  guide 
thee  ! "  One  long,  silent,  ardent,  pas- 
sionate embrace,  and  then,  by  the  light 
of  the  moon  shining  through  the  planks 
of  the  hut,  the  mother  watched  the 
child  gliding  out  through  the  narrow 
opening  in  its  wall. 

She  was  gone.    Gone  whither  ?  gone 
with  whom  ?— a  young  savage  for  her 


guide.  Had  she  been  mad,  to  part 
with  her  thus?  Her  heart  almost 
ceased  to  beat.  She  stretched  herself 
on  the  ground  near  the  opening  through 
which  the  child  had  passed,  and  gazed 
on  the  meadow  illumined  by  the  bril- 
liant moonlight.  Distinctly  she  dis- 
cerned Mina's  figure,  bounding  over 
the  dewy  grass  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
young  antelope,  and  keeping  pace  with 
the  Indian,  who  had  joined  her.  The 
two  forms  on  which  her  strained  eyes 
were  gazing,  disappeared  from  her 
sight.  They  plunged  into  the  thickets 
which  led  to  the  river.  She  turned 
round  and  hid  her  face  in  the  heap  of 
dried  leaves  on  which  the  child's  head 
had  rested  a  moment  before,  to  stifle 
the  least  sound  from  passing  her  lips, 
to  still,  by  a  strong  effort,  the  agony 
which  was  convulsing  her  frame. 

It  was  almost  a  relief  when  they 
came  to  fetch  her  away  from  the  hut. 
No  great  search  was  made  for  Mina. 
The  woman  who  was  set  to  guard  the 
captives  said  a  few  words  to  the  mes- 
sengers, which  apparently  accounted 
for  her  absence.  She  made  a  show  of 
zeal,  however,  by  showering  reproaches 
on  Madame  d'Auban,  and  dragging 
her  roughly  to  the  door  of  the  hut. 
To  the  mother's  heart  ill-usage  was 
welcome;  the  sight  of  the  stakes  to 
which  women  and  children  were  being 
bound,  the  cruelty  of  the  Indians,  their 
savage  glee,  a  strange  sort  of  consola- 
tion. Had  her  own  life  been  spared, 
the  thought  that  she  had  sent  her  child 
unguarded,  save  by  her  Indian  play- 
mate, into  the  wilderness,  would  have 
maddened  her.  Now  that  she  was 
herself  about  to  die,  she  felt  she  could 
commit  her  without  reserve  to  God's 
protection;  now  she  could  murmur 
with  intense  gratitude,  "  She  is  gone, 
she  is  gone ; "  and  her  mental  vision 
fixed  itself  with  an  intensity  which 
was  almost  like  sight  on  the  thought 
of  the  crucifix  on  the  breast  of  her 


148 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


young  guide.  Through  the  long  hours 
of  that  terrible  night,  the  Christian 
heroine  bore  her  lofty  part,  and  during 
the  next  dreadful  day,  and  when  the 
shades  of  evening  .fell,  and  again 
through  the  night,  which  was  to  be 
the  last  to  so  many  human  beings 
doomed  to  perish  at  sunrise — in  the 
full  light  of  the  glorious,  majestic  sun, 
the  noblest  of  God's  inanimate  works, 
the  object  of  idolatrous  worship  to  the 
heathen  murderers  gathered  around 
them,  the  silent  witness  of  men's  errors 
and  men's  crimes.  She  forgot  herself; 
she  forgot  her  absent  husband  and  her 
fugitive  child,  in  the  intense,  all-ab- 
sorbing desire  to  prepare  for  death 
and  judgment  her  companions  in  ad- 
versity;  she  found  strength  to  raise 
her  voice  and  speak  of  hope  to  the  per- 
ishing, of  pardon  to  the  guilty.  She 
repeated  aloud  acts  of  faith,  of  love, 
and  of  contrition ;  she  said  that  Mary 
was  praying  and  Jesus  waiting;  that 
one  word,  one  sigh,  one  upward  glance 
was  enough  to  win  heaven  in  that 
hour;  and  as  the  Indians  danced,  as 
was  their  wont,  around  their  victims, 
and  made  the  air  resound  with  their 
songs  of  savage  glee,  her  voice  still 
rose  above  their  discordant  cries,  her 
prayers  filled  up  every  pause  in  their 
dreadful  merriment,  and  grace  was  giv- 
en her  to  do  an  angel's  work  in  the 
midst  of  those  breaking  hearts  and 
those  infuriated  men. 

The  remaining  hours  of  life  were 
waning  fast.  The  prisoners  were  to 
die  at  sunrise,  and  the  first  faint  light 
of  morning  was  beginning  to  dawn  in 
the  sky.  Many  of  the  Indians  set  to 
guard  the  prisoners,  who  were,  how- 
ever, tightly  bound  to  their  respective 
stakes,  had  fallen  asleep,  having  large- 
ly indulged  throughout  the  night  in 
the  "fiery  essence,"  as  they  called 
brandy,  which  they  had  brought  away 
in  great  quantities  from  the  French 
fort.  Madame  d'Auban  was  still  speak- 


ing, in  a  feeble,  exhausted  manner,  to 
poor  Madame  Lenoir,  whose  cries  of 
despair  had  subsided  into  weary  groans, 
when  she  heard  a  voice  close  behind 
her,  and  turning  round,  as  much  as  the 
ropes  with  which  she  was  bound  allow- 
ed, she  saw  Osseo,  with  a  knife  in  his 
hand,  standing  half  concealed  from 
sight. 

"Daughter  of  the  white  man,"  he 
whispered,  "  where  is  Mina  ?  I  will 
cut  these  ropes  and  show  thee  how  to 
escape  whilst  these  men  sleep,  if  thou 
wilt  tell  me  where  I  can  find  her." 

"  The  Great  Spirit  alone  knows  where 
she  is  now,"  answered  Madame  d'Au- 
ban, shuddering  at  the  expression  of 
Osseo's  face. 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  of  the  Great 
Spirit,  or  of  your  detested  prayer.  I 
want  Mina  ;  and  I  have  in  my  bosom  a 
fetish  which  will  help  me  to  find  her, 
if  thou  dost  refuse  to  tell  me  where  she 
is,  and  thou  art  going  to  die."  He 
added,  in  a  mocking  tone,  "  The  fire  is 
even  now  being  kindled  which  will 
shrivel  thy  white  limbs,  as  the  flame 
burns  up  the  wood  of  the  forest.  Tell 
me  where  Mina  is,  and  I  will  save  thee." 

Madame  d'Auban  feebly  shook  her 
head ;  her  strength  was  quite  exhausted. 

"  I  will  search  for  her  all  over  the 
land,"  the  young  savage  cried,  brandish- 
ing a  tomahawk;  "and  if  thou  hast 
sent  her  across  the  great  salt  lake,  I 
can  row  a  swifter  boat  than  man  has 
ever  yet  made." 

The  mother  closed  her  eyes,  and 
heard  the  sound  of  his  retreating  steps ; 
and  then  for  a  while  the  silence  was 
unbroken,  save  by  the  groans  of  the 
prisoners  and  the  heavy  snoring  of  their 
drunken  foes. 

The  next  time  she  opened  her  eyes 
the  sun  was  illuminating  the  mountain 
tops. 

"  Glorious  orb  of  day !  harbinger  of 
death,"  she  murmured.  "Blessed  be 
thy  light  shining  on  our  painful  way 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


149 


.•  to  heaven !  Blessed  be  thy  rays  warm- 
ing our  limbs,  as  the  love  of  Jesus 
twarins  our  hearts!  Darkness  is  still 
brooding  over  the  plain,  but  the  heights 
are  even  now  resplendent  with  light ; 
Ithe  shadows  of  death  at  hand,  the 
glory  of  heaven  shining  beyond  them. 
O  my  Godl  Thou  dost,  indeed,  send 
,thy  messenger  before  Thee!  My  be- 
loved ones,  farewell ! " 

Her  head  fell  on  her  breast;  she 
meither  moved  nor  spoke,  but  silently 
(prepared  for  death.  Hark  !  what  was 
(the  sound  which  fell  upon  her  ear,  like 
tthe  splash  of  rain-drops  on  the  leaves 
tof  the  forest,  like  the  footfall  of  watch- 
ers near  a  dying  man's  bed?  Can  a 
foand  of  armed  men  tread  so  lightly  ? 
!Can  a  troop  of  warriors  steal  along 
iwith  so  noiseless  a  progress  ?  Yes,  for 
tthey  are  of  the  swift,  light-footed  tribe 
of  the  Choktaws.  They  are  the  deep 
divers,  the  wily  hunters  of  the  Western 
'Prairies.  They  track  the  wild  beast 
to  his  den,  and  surprise  the  alligator 
in  his  sleep  by  the  river  sitle.  And 
ithey  have  listened  to  the  white  man's 
(appeal.  In  their  own  tongue  they  have 
heard  him  tell  his  dreadful  tale.  There 
has  been  a  long  hereditary  feud  be- 
tween them  and  the  children  of  the 
Sun,  and  their  hatred  of  the  Natches 
has  kindled  into  a  flame,  on  hearing 
of  the  murder  of  the  black-robe ;  for 
the  Pere  SouM  had  been  amongst  them 
and  spoken  of  "the  prayer  of  the 
Christians,"  and  they  had  answered, 
"  It  is  well ;  we  have  heard  your  words, 
and  we  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us." 
At  the  voice  of  the  stranger  they  have 
risen  as  one  man.  Seven  hundred 
warriors  performed  the  dance  of  war, 
and  pledged  themselves  to  the  rescue 
of  the  white  men's  wives  and  children. 
From  the  villages  and  the  solitary 
wigwams,  from  the  hills  and  from  the 
plains,  they  emerged  ad  joined  the 
white  leader,  and  crossed  the  great 
river  by  the  light  of  the  crescent  moon. 


As  the  day  dawns  in  the  east  they 
draw  near  to  the  City  of  the  Sun.  In 
silence  they  advance.  If  they  speak,  it 
is  under  their  breath.  D'Auban  marches 
at  the  head  of  the  red  warriors,  the 
only  stranger  amongst  them— the  only 
one  for  whom  more  than  life  or  than 
fame  is  at  stake.  He  feels  in  himself 
the  strength  to  struggle  with  a  thou- 
sand foes,  and  yet  the  stirring  of  a  leaf 
makes  his  heart  beat  like  a  woman's. 
It  was  such  a  terrible  suspense — such 
an  agonizing  uncertainty!  His  eyes 
strive  to  pierce  the  dewy  mist  which 
hides  from  him  the  distant  view.  They 
grow  dim  with  straining,  those  burn- 
ing, tearless  eyes,  and  the  tangled 
boughs  and  the  feathery  branches  of 
the  forest  take  odd,  fantastic  shapes, 
which  mock  his  yearning  sight.  In 
the  dim  vista  of  an  opening  in  the 
wood  he  fancies  that  he  sees  two  figures 
advance.  No;  one  is  advancing  and 
the  other  recedes,  and  after  a  while 
disappears.  But  that  something  white 
which  approaches,  what  is  it  ?  Is  the 
mist  thickening,  or  his  slight  failing? 
He  can  discern  nothing.  But  a  voice,  a 
cry,  reaches  his  ear.  "Father!  Oh, 
Father !"  He  rushes  forward,  and  Mina 
is  in  his  arms.  The  band  of  warriors 
gathers  round  them. 

"  Your  mother  ?  Where  is  your 
mother?" 

"  She  sent  me  away ;  I  crept  out  of 
the  hut.  Make  haste ;  make  haste ! " 

"Is  she  safe?  Is  she  well?  How 
have  they  treated  you  ? " 

"  Well,  till  last  night.  Make  haste, 
father;  make  haste!  The  sachems 
were  very  angry  when  my  mother  sent 
me  away." 

D'Auban  took  up  his  little  daughter 
in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  weighed  but 
a  feather,  and  strode  forward.  Ho 
could  have  carried  three  times  her 
weight  and  not  have  felt  it,  so  intensely 
strained  was  his  nervous  system.  But 
suddenly  halting,  he  turned  to  the  In- 


150 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT     TO    BE    TRUE. 


dians  and  said — "My  brothers,  the 
Great  Spirit  has  sent  this  child  to  meet 
us.  The  Great  Spirit  is  with  us,  and 
will  bless  my  Indian  brothers  for  the 
deed  they  do  this  day." 

A  whisper  went  through  the  war- 
riors' ranks. 

"The  white  maiden,"  they  said, 
"was  come  from  the  Great  Spirit  to 
lead  them  to  the  City  of  the  Sun;" 
and  onward  they  pressed  through  the 
tangled  thickets,  grasping  their  wea- 
pons like  the  hunter  who  discerns  the 
footsteps  of  his  prey. 

The  wood  is  passed  at  last,  and  the 
open  plain  lies  stretched  before  them. 
They  see  the  white  wigwams  of  the 
Natches'  city  amongst  the  oleander  and 
acacia  groves.  Another  hour's  march 
and  they  will  have  reached  it.  D'Au- 
ban  calls  one  of  the  Indians. 

"  My  brother  Pearl  Feather,"  he  says, 
"  take  this  child,  and  stay  with  her  in 
this  spot.  If  we  succeed  we  will  send 
for  you  from  yonder  city,  to  sing  with 
us  the'  song  of  victory ;  but  if  the  night 
comes  and  no  tidings  reach  you,  then 
say  'My -white  brother  is  dead,'  and 
take  the  child  to  the  black  robe  of  the 
nearest  mission,  or  to  the  French  in 
the  south,  and  the  Great  Spirit  will 
bless  thee,  my  brother,  and  show  thee 
the  way  to  the  land  of  tlie  hereafter." 

"  I  will  not  leave  you,  father,"  Mina 
cried,  convulsively  grasping  her  father's 
arm;  "let  me  run  by  your  side.  I 
could  keep  up  with  Ontara,  let  me  stay 
with  you." 

"  Mina,  in  God's  name,  and  as  your 
father,  I  command  you  to  remain  here." 
He  had  spoken  as  if  in  anger,  and  the 
child  flung  herself  on  the  ground  in  a 
paroxysm  of  grief.  He  did  not  trust 
himself  to  look  back.  He  went  on,  for 
every  minute  was  a  matter  of  life  and 
death ;  and  the  fair-haired  child  re- 
mained lying  on  the  greensward  mo- 
tionless as  a  marble  image,  pale  as  a 
broken  lily,  refusing  to  be  comforted 


by  the  Indian,  who  tried  in  vain  to 
direct  her  thoughts  to  other  objects 
than  the  onward  march  of  that  little 
band  towards  the  city  where  the  lives 
of  both  her  parents  were  hanging  on  a 
thread. 

The  hour  had  arrived  when  the  sa- 
chems were  to  assemble  in  the  square 
to  witness  the  execution  of  the  European 
captives.  The  gong  which  was  to  sum- 
mon them  was  to  have  sounded  when 
the  sun  rose,  but  the  sleeping  guards 
awoke  from  their  drunken  slumbers  to 
witness  a  far  different  scene.  Weapons 
were  brandished  in  their  eyes  and  over 
their  heads.  Flames  were  bursting  forth 
from  various  buildings  in  the  town. 
The  wigwams  were  set  on  fire  in  every 
direction,  and  d'Auban's  warriors  had 
encircled  the  square,  whilst  he  rushed 
to  the  stakes  and  cut  the  cords  which 
bound  the  prisoners. 

A  cry  of  rage  and  terror  arose  from 
the  affrighted  city.  The  whilom  triumph- 
ant Natches  now  rent  the  air  with  their 
howls  of  fury.  They  rushed  about  in 
wild  confusion,  some  to  oppose  their 
enemies,  the  number  of  which  they 
could  not  discern,  so  utter  had  been  the 
surprise,  so  swift  and  stealthy  their  ap- 
proach,— some  to  extinguish  the  flames 
which  were  extending  over  the  village, 
and  threatened  the  chief's  palace. 

D'Auban  had  caught  his  wife  in  his 
arms  just  as  she  was  sinking  to  the 
ground.  "Mina?"  she  had  just  strength 
to  murmur. 

"  She  is  safe,"  he  answered.  "  Bear 
up  for  a  while,  my  beloved  one.  The 
lives  of  all  these  helpless  ones  depend 
on  the  event  of  this  hour."  Then  as- 
suming the  direction  of  the  assailing 
forc%,  he  assigned  to  a  hundred  men 
the  task  of  conveying  the  women  and 
children  to  the  shore,  where  boats  had 
been  previously  sent  to  await  them. 
He  despatched  a  man  to  the  spot  where 
he  had  left  his  child  under  the  care  of 
her  Indian  protector,  with  orders  to 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


151 


proceed  at  once  to  the  river  side.  With 
his  remaining  force  he  kept  the  enemy 
engaged,  and  dreadful  was  the  fierce 
encounter  between  the  two  tribes.  Many 
a  Natches  fell  under  the  blows  of  the 
more  warlike  Choktaws ;  but  the  strug- 
gle was  an  unequal  one,  and  if  pro- 
longed must  have  turned  to  the  advan- 
tage of  the  Children  of  the  Sun,  who 
were  beginning  to  recover  from  their 
surprise  and  hurrying  from  every  side 
to  join  the  conflict.  D'Auban's  supe- 
rior military  skill  enabled  him  to  con- 
duct the  retreat  of  his  band,  and  to 
cope  successfully  with  their  far  more 
numerous  pursuers.  He  had  sent  a 
messenger  to  Fort  Rosalie,  and  had 
hoped  that  a  French  force  might  have 
been  despatched  in  time  to  meet  him ; 
but  a  keen-eyed  Indian  who  surveyed 
the  country  from  one  of  the  neighbour- 
ing heights  could  discern  no  sign  of 
their  approach,  and  he  determined  on 
effecting  if  possible  the  rescue  of  the 
captives  without  attempting  to  maintain 
their  position  in  the  Natches'  city, 
which  ttyey  had,  as  it  were,  taken  by 
storm.  The  Choktaw  Indians,  like  the 
Parthians  of  old,  discharged  their  ar- 
rows at  their  enemies  as  they  retreated, 
and  d'Auban  with  the  musket  which 
had  already  done  him  such  good  ser- 
vice kept  them  also  at  bay.  At  the 
sight  of  the  murderous  weapon  the 
pursuers  fell  back.  Their  missiles  made 
havoc  the  while  amongst  the  rescuing 
party,  and  many  a  Choktaw  warrior 
remained  stark  •  and  cold  on  the  green 
slopes  between  the  City  of  the  Sun  and 
the  Father  of  "Waters.  At  last  the  shore 
was  reached,  and  whilst  the  gallant 
band  under  d'Auban's  command  faced 
the  foe,  the  women  and  children  were 
embarked  in  the  boats  and  barges  man- 
ned with  rowers  of  the  friendly  tribe. 
Madame  d'Auban's  face  turned  as  pale 
as  ashes,  for  Mina  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  Boat  after  boat  was  filled  with 
women  and  children,  and  shot  down 


the  stream,  impelled  by  the  rowers  and 
aided  by  the  current.  But  one  remained. 
D'Auban  and  his  Indians  fought  on; 
but  how  long  would  they  remain  by  his 
side?  How  long  were  they  to  wait? 
How  long  would  they  shed  their  blood 
for  the  sake  of  that  one  missing  child  ? 
Himself  he  felt  his  strength  giving  way, 
his  arm  waxing  weak,  his  head  growing 
dizzy.  At  that  moment  the  sky  was 
lighted  up  by  a  lurid  glare.  The  Nat- 
ches looked  back  towards  their  homes, 
and  saw  the  flames  bursting  out  afresh 
from  every  grove  and  every  temple  of 
the  City  of  the  Sun.  A  cry  rose  to  their 
lips;  abandoning  in  tumultuous  haste 
the  pursuit,  they  retraced  their  steps, 
and  rushed  wildly  back  towards  the 
burning  town.  At  that  moment  also, 
staggering  under  a  burden  that  was  no 
longer  a  light  one  for  the  dying  man 
who  was  bearing  it,  Pearl  Feather,  the 
swiftest  runner  of  his  tribe,  fell  breath- 
less at  d'Auban's  feet.  Mina  was  in 
her  father's  arms,  and  the  Indian  gasped 
out  in  feeble  accents,  "  The  bird  of  prey 
sought  to  carry  away  the  dove,  and  his 
fetish  has  great  power.  But  the  Great 
Spirit  of  the  Christian  prayer  was  more 
powerful  still.  He  gave  me  strength 
to  bring  her  to  thee,  my  white  brother, 
and  now  depart  and  leave  me  to  die." 

Then  d'Auban  saw  the  arrow  which 
was  lodged  in  the  Indian's  breast,  and 
guessed  it  was  a  poisoned  one.  For 
one  moment  he  knelt  by  the  true  friend 
who  had  saved  his  child;  and  when 
the  brave  spirit  passed  away,  the  prayers 
and  the  blessing  which  followed  it  be- 
yond this  mortal  scene  were  of  those 
which  are  not  spoken  in  words,  but  rise 
straight  from  the  heart  with  speechless 
intensity. 

The  friendly  Indians  for  the  most 
part  swam  across  the  river  and  dis- 
persed in  the  woods,  bearing  away  with 
them  as  much  as  they  could  carry  of 
the  treasures  stolen  from  the  city  during 
their  brief  invasion  of  its  precincts. 


152 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


The  barge  which  held  d'Auban,  his 
wife  and  child,  the  corpse  of  her  dead 
deliverer,  and  a  few  of  their  companions 
in  the  late  combat,  descended  the  river 
with  all  the  swiftness  possible  under 
the  circumstances.  It  was  a  wonderful 
escape  the  captives  had  had,  and  Mina's, 
perhaps,  the  most  wonderful  of  all. 
Osseo  had  met  her  and  her  protector 
on  the  way  to  the  river,  and  sought  to 
detain  the  white  maiden,  who,  he  said, 
was  a  runaway  slave  from  the  chief's 
palace,  and  force  her  back  to  the  town. 
Most  likely  he  would  have  succeeded, 
for  his  strength  was  superior  to  that  of 
an  old  man  and  a  child,  had  not  On- 
tara,  who  was  also  searching  for  Mina 
in  every  direction,  arrived  on  the  spot 
at  that  very  moment  and  taken  part 
with  the  fugitives.  Osseo  turned  with 
fury  on  his  new  opponent,  which  gave 
the  Indian  time  to  fly  with  the  little 
girl  in  his  arms.  Like  an  arrow  from 
a  bow,  swiftly  and  straightly  he  crossed 
the  plain,  through  the  feathery  grasses 
and  waving  fields  of  green  maize.  Al- 
ready were  the  armed  men  on  the  river 
side  and  their  boats  there  in  sight, 
when  a  shaft,  a  poisoned  one  too,  came 
whizzing  through  the  air  and  struck 
him  as  he  ran.  No  cry  escaped  his  lips ; 
he  scarcely  slackened  his  pace :  but  the 
child  he  was  carrying  felt  he  was  wound- 
ed, and  that  his  steps  were  faltering. 
She  shut  her  eyes  in  anguish  and  called 
to  him  to  stop,  but  he  heeded  her  not ; 
his  lips  faintly  murmured  a  chant  which 
was  the  death  song  of  his  tribe,  but  the 
words  he  set  to  it  were  those  of  the 
Christian  prayer.  His  blood  coloured 
the  greensward  up  to  the  margin  of  the 
stream.  He  died  silently  at  the  feet 
of  the  friend  whose  child  he  had  saved. 
No  wonder  that  burning  tears  of  grati- 
tude and  of  sorrow  fell  on  the  lifeless 
form  of  the  Indian,  as  he  lay  stiff  and 
cold  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  which 
bore  away. the  captives  to  safety  and  to 
freedom. 


Three  days  afterwards  sheltering 
walls  enclosed  the  weary  fugitives, 
and  the  call  of  French  sentries,  as 
they  paced  around  the  fort  which 
had  received  them,  sounded  like  music 
in  their  ears.  D'Auban  sat  between  his 
wife  and  child,  looking  at  them  with  a 
tenderness  too  deep  for  words.  He  was 
beginning  to  feel  the  effects  of  the 
intense  fatigue  and  excitement  he  had 
gone  through.  His  weary  limbs  and 
overwrought  mind  were  sinking  with 
exhaustion.  He  was  become  gray- 
haired,  and  looked  ten  years  older  than 
when  he  had  left  St.  Agathe.  His  wife 
recovered  more  quickly.  At  her  age 
there  is  still  an  elasticity  of  spirits, 
which  surmounts  more  speedily  the 
effects  of  suffering  than  at  a  more 
advanced  period  of  life ;  and  though 
she  had  borne  much  anguish,  she  had 
not  had,  like  him,  to  act  under  its  in- 
tolerable pressure. 

When  Mina  went  to  bed  that  even- 
ing she  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow,  but 
her  parents  heard  her  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

"What  ails  you,  my  child?"  her 
mother  tenderly  inquired,  whilst  her 
father  anxiously  bent  over  her. 

"  I  shall  never  see  my  brother  again," 
cried  the  weeping  child.  "He  has 
saved  my  life,  and  I  love  him  better 
than  any  one  in  the  world,  except  you 
both.  I  heard  one  of  the  soldiers  say 
that  the  French  were  marching  to  the 
Natches'  city,  and  would  kill  all  its 
inhabitants.  O  father,  they  will  kill 
my  brother,  who  saved  your  life  and 
mine ! " 

D'Auban  was  much  affected  at  this 
thought,  and  at  his  daughter's  well- 
founded  fears.  He  assured  her  that  as 
soon  as  they  reached  New  Orleans  he 
would  go  to  the  governor,  and  entreat 
him  to  send  orders  to  the  commandant 
of  the  French  troops  to  save  the  life  of 
the  young  chief  Ontara,  and  to  treat 
him  with  kindness. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


153 


"  Let  us  go  on  at  ODCC,  then,"  cried 
Mina,  sitting  up  in  her  bed. 

"  We  shall  start  to-morrow  morning," 
said  her  mother.  "  Try  and  sleep,  my 
child." 

It  was  some  days,  however,  before 
d'Auban  recovered  sufficiently  to  leave 
Baton  Rouge ;  but  he  sent  a  letter  to 
M.  Perrier  by  one  of  the  soldiers  of  the 
fort.  He  felt  great  misgivings  about 
the  young  Indian's  fate,  though  he  tried 
to  calm  Mina's  fears  and  to  divert  her 
mind  from  the  subject.  If  he  had 
grown  old  in  the  space  of  a  few  days, 
his  little  girl  had  become  almost  a 
woman  in  thought  and  feeling  during 
the  same  lapse  of  time.  She  did  not 
play  any  more.  Her  mind  was  inces- 
santly going  over  the  past,  or  forming 
plans  for  the  future,  with  an  intense 
imaginative  power  which  hastened  in 
some  respects  the  development  of  her 
character.  The  scenes  she  had  gone 


through;  the  memories  they  had  left 
behind  them  ;  the  sight  of  her  father's 
enfeebled  frame,  and  of  the  anxious 
looks  her  mother  bent  upon  him ;  the 
uncertainty  in  which  Ontara's  fate  was 
involved, — had  a  depressing  effect  on 
her  affectionate  and  highly  sensitive 
temperament.  It  was  an  abrupt  tran- 
sition from  a  life  as  joyous  and  as  free 
as  a  child  had  ever  led,  to  one  too  full 
of  cares  and  conflicting  feelings  for  one 
so  young  and  so  naturally  thoughtful. 
As  her  spirits  did  not  revive  after  their 
arrival  at  New  Orleans,  her  parents 
resolved  to  place  her  for  a  while  at  the 
school  of  the  Ursuline  Convent,  in  the 
hope  that  regular  habits  of  study  and 
the  society  of  girls  of  her  own  age 
would  dissipate  the  depressing  effects 
of  the  scenes  she  had  witnessed.  The 
results  of  this  experiment  were  not  at 
first  very  successful. 


OHAPTEE    IY. 


In  the  cruel  fire  of  sorrow 

Cast  thy  heart,  do  not  faint  or  wall, 

Let  thy  hand  be  firm  and  steady, 

Do  not  let  thy  spirits  quail. 

But  wait  till  the  time  is  over, 

And  take  thy  heart  again ; 

For  as  gold  is  tried  by  fire, 

So  a  heart  must  bo  tried  by  pain. 

Adelaide  Proctor. 


A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear, 
Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep ; 
I  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here ; 
Oh  I  therefore,  let  me  weep. 

Jfrt.  Neman*. 


ABOUT  three  months  after  the  events 
related  in  the  last  chapter,  a  number  of 
girls  of  various  ages  were  playing 
amongst  orange  trees  of  the  garden  of 
the  Ursuline'  Convent,  with  all  the 
vivacity  belonging  to  youth  and  the 


French  character.  They  had  just  ob- 
tained a  holiday  in  honour  of  the  news 
which  had  reached  New  Orleans,  of  the 
final  suppression  of  the  Natchcs  insur- 
rection by  a  body  of  French  troops,  and 
their  patriotic  exultation  was  at  its 


154 


TOO     STEANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TEUE. 


height.  A  handsome,  clever-looking 
girl  of  fifteen  jumped  upon  a  bench, 
under  a  banana  tree,  and  began  to 
harangue  the  crowd  which  gathered 
round  her.  Ernilie  de  Beauregard  was 
a  great  favourite  in  the  school,  and  be- 
fore she  opened  her  mouth  the  girls 
clapped  their  hands,  and  then  cried  out 
"Silence!" 

"Mesdemoiselles ! "  she  began,  "let 
your  French  hearts  rejoice  !  Your  coun- 
trymen have  gained  a  glorious  victory  ! 
The  royal  flag,  the  white  lilies  of 
France,  floats  over  the  ruins  of  the  city 
of  the  Sun."  A  round  of  applause  sa- 
luted this  exordium.  The  orator, 
warmed  -  by  success,  went  on.  "  The 
frustrated  enemy  bites  the  dust.  They 
dared  to  kill  Frenchmen;  but  now 
vengeance  has  overtaken  them,  and 
the  rivers  run  with  their  blood." 

"That  was  in  our  historical  lesson 
this  morning,"  whispered  Julie  d'Arta- 
ban  to  Eose  Perrier. 

"Never  mind.  Hold  your  tongue," 
answered  the  governor's  daughter. 
"  It  is  very  fine." 

"  The  houses  of  those  monsters  are 
a  prey  to  the  flames — not  a  corn-field 
or  an  orange  garden  remains  in  the 
plain  where  French  blood  has  been 
spilt.  These  Indians  are  all  as  cruel 
as  wild  beasts,  but  now  they  are  hunt- 
ed down  without  mercy.  Their  princes, 
the  Children  of  the  Sun,  as  they  call 
themselves,  are  all  slain  or  sold  away 
as  slaves.  Not  one  of  their  dark  visages 
will  ever  be*  seen  again  in  the  land  of 
their  birth." 

This  was  too  much  for  one  of  the 
audience.  There  was  a  sudden  rush 
to  the  bench.  Mina  d'Auban,  with 
flashing  eyes  and  crimson  cheeks,  had 
seized  and  overturned  it,  and  the  orator 
had  fallen  full  length  on  the  grass. 
This  assault  naturally  enough  made 
Mdlle.  de  Beauregard  very  angry,  and 
her  friends  and  admirers  still  more  so. 
Cries  of  "  You  naughty  girl ! "  "  You 


wicked  Indian  princess ! "  (this  was 
Mina's  nickname  in  the  school),  re- 
sounded on  every  side. 

"  Fi  done  !  Mademoiselle,"  exclaim- 
ed Julie  d'Artaban ;  and  Eose  Perrier, 
who  had  high  ideas  of  administrative 
justice,  ran  to  call  Sister  Gertrude,  the 
mistress  of  the  class. 

The  placid-looking  nun  found  Mina 
crying  in  the  midst  of  her  excited  and 
indignant  companions,  who  all  bore 
witness  to  the  outrage  she  had  com- 
mitted. 

"  She  pushed  Emilie  down  because 
she  was  telling  us  the  good  news  that 
the  French  have  won  a«great  victory." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  play  with  Mad- 
emoiselle d'Auban,"  said  another.  She 
flies  into  a  passion  if  we  say  we  like 
our  own  country  people  better  than 
Indians  and  negroes." 

"  She  said  all  the  Indians  are  mon- 
sters," said  Mina,  sobbing;  "and  I 
think  she  is  a  monster  herself  to  say 
so.  Some  of  them  are  very  good — bet- 
ter than  white  people."  There  was  a 
general  burst  of  laughter,  which  in- 
creased her  exasperation,  and  she  pas- 
sionately exclaimed,  "I  hate  white 
people ! " 

"Come  with  me,  my  child,"  said 
Sister  Gertrude;  "you  do  not  know 
what  you  are  saying.  You  must  not 
remain  with  your  companions  if  you 
cannot  control  your  temper.  Go  and 
sit  in  the  school-room  alone  for  an 
hour,  and  I  will  speak  to  you  after- 
wards." 

Poor  Mina's  heart  was  bursting  with 
grief  and  indignation ;  and  her  con- 
science also  reproached  her  for  her  vio- 
lence. She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
forgive  her  companions,  or  to  feel  at 
peace  with  them.  This  conflict  had 
been  going  on  ever  since  she  had  been 
at  school.  The  separation  from  her 
parents  had  been  a  hard  trial.  They 
had  thought  that  the  companionship 
of  French  children  would  divert  her 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


155 


mind  from  painful  thoughts,  and  over- 
come her  determined  predilection  for 
the  Indians.  But  they  had  not  calcu- 
lated on  the  effect  produced  upon  her 
by  the  unmitigated  abhorrence  her  play- 
mates expressed  for  the  people  she  so 
dearly  loved.  Their  hatred  made  no 
distinction  between  the  treacherous 
Natches  and  the  good  Illinois  Chris- 
tians ;  and  a  rankling  sense  of  injustice 
kept  up  her  irritation.  It  was,  per- 
haps, as  natural  that  these  girls,  most 
of  whom  had  lost  friends  and  relations 
in  the  insurrection,  should  feel  an  an- 
tipathy for  the  Indians,  as  that  Mina, 
with  all  .her  recollections  of  St.  Agathe, 
and  her  gratitude  and  affection  for 
Ontara  and  for  Pearl  Feather,  should 
resent  its  expression. 

But  the  result  was,  that  instead  of 
diminishing  her  overweening  partiali- 
ty for  the  land  of  her  birth  and  its 
native  inhabitants,  her  residence  at 
school  had  hitherto  only  served  to  in- 
crease it.  She  also  sadly  missed  the 
freedom  of  her  earlier  years.  She  was 
often  in  disgrace  for  breaches  of  disci- 
pline. The  confinement  of  the  class- 
room was  trying  to  her ;  and  she  com- 
mitted faults  of  a  peculiar  nature,  such 
as  taking  off  her  stockings  in  order  to 
cross  barefooted  the  little  stream  which 
ran  through  the  garden,  and  climbing 
up  the  trees  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  sea, 
the  sight  of  which  reminded  her  of  the 
green  waving  fields  of  her  home. 

When  Sister  Gertrude  entered  the 
school-room  she  found  her  at.  first  silent 
and  sad,  but  by  degrees  her  gentle 
manner  and  soothing  words  drew  from 
the  overburthened  heart  of  the  poor 
child  the  expression  of  her  feelings; 
she  understood  them,  and  while  blam- 
ing her  violence,  she  made  allowance 
for  the  provocation,  and  showed  sym- 
pathy in  the  trial  she  was  enduring. 
It  was  not  only  at  school  that  Mina's 
sensitive  nature  was  wounded  by  the 
absence  of  such  sympathy :  her  father 


and  mother  had  Buffered  so  terribly 
during  the  days  of  her  captivity,  and 
of  his  absence,  that  they  involuntarily 
shrunk  from  every  thing  which  remind- 
ed them  of  that  time.  They  would 
have  made  every  effort  and  every  sacri- 
fice in  their  power  for  the  sake  of  the 
young  Indian  who  had  protected  their 
child,  and  prayed  daily  for  the  brave 
man  who  had  died  to  save  her.  But 
the  mention  of  their  names  recalled 
such  terrible  scenes  that  they  instinct- 
ively recoiled  from  it.  Mina  perceived 
this  without  quite  understanding  it. 
She  had  the  quick  tact  to  feel  that 
though  she  was  never  told  not  to  speak 
of  them,  the  subject  was  evidently  not 
a  welcome  one ;  and  nobody  could  have 
guessed  how  much  the  child  suffered 
from  this  tacit  prohibition.  St.  Agathe, 
too,  was  not  often  alluded  to  by  her 
parents.  When  she  spoke  of  that  be- 
loved place,  her  mother  looked  sad  and 
anxious.  She  watched  her  husband's 
looks  with  daily  increasing  anxiety. 
Yearnings  for  his  native  country,  the 
home-sickness  which  sometimes  so  sud- 
denly seizes  exiles,  joined  to  the  early 
stages  of  a  disease  brought  on  by  vio- 
lent bodily  exertions  and  mental  anxie- 
ty, had  greatly  affected  Colonel  d'Au- 
ban's  spirits,  and  Mina  could  not  pour 
forth  her  thoughts  in  his  presence  with 
the  same  freedom  she  had  been  used  to 
do.  Nothing  had  been  discovered  as 
to  Ontara's  fate.  Every  inquiry  had 
been  made  by  d'Auban  regarding  the 
royal  family  of  the  Natches.  He  ascer- 
tained what  had  become  of  all  its  mem- 
bers except  the  two  young  men,  Ontara 
and  Osseo.  They  had  either  perished 
or  taken  refuge  amongst  some  of  the 
more  distant  tribes.  A  reward  was 
promised  for  their  capture,  as  it  was 
deemed  dangerous  to  allow  any  of  the 
relatives  of  the  great  Sun  to  remain  at 
liberty.  But,  at  his  friends'  earnest 
entreaty,  the  governor  gave  orders,  that 
if  Ontara  was  arrested,  he  should  be 


156 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


treated  with  kindness  and  instantly 
brought  to  New  Orleans. 

It  was  a  great  consolation  to  Mina 
to  relate  all  her  story  to  Sister  Ger- 
trude on  the  day  when  matters  had 
arrived  at  a  crisis  between  her  and  her 
companions. 

"  You  see,  dear  sister,"  she  said,  "  I 
am  an  Indian  girl,  though  my  skin  is 
white.  I  was  born  in  the  Illinois ;  and 
I  only  wish  I  was  brown,  and  had  black 
eyes  and  hair  like  my  own  people." 

"But,  my  dear,  that  is  not  right. 
You  are  a  Creole,  not  an  Indian.  Your 
parents  are  French,  and  you  ought  to 
be  glad  that  you  are  like  them." 

"  And  'so  I  should  be,  sister,  if  the 
white  girl§  loved  the  Indians ;  but  they 
hate  them,  and  I  then  want  them  to 
hate  me  also." 

"  But  what  a  shocking  word  that  is 
for  Christians  to  use  !  I  do  not  think 
your  companions  really  hate  these  poor 
people.  I  am  sure  I  hope  not,  for  we 
are  going  to  receive  here  to-morrow  six 
little  native  orphan  girls  whose  parents 
were  killed  in  the  insurrection.  They 
were  to  have  been  sold  as  slaves,  but 
our  good  mother  begged  them  of  the 
Company,  and  we  are  going  to  bring 
them  up  as  Christians.  This  evening, 
after  night  prayers,  I  shall  say  a  few 
words  to  our  children,  and  tell  them 
that  for  the  love  of  Christ  they  should 
welcome  and  cherish  these  little  out- 
casts. But  Mina,  my  child,  you  should 
also  remember  that  Anna  Mirepoix's 
father,  and  Jeanne  Castel's  brother,  and 
Virginia  d'Aumont's  uncle,  have  all 
died  by  the  hand  of  the  red  men ;  and 
when  they  say  things  which  make  you 
angry,  ask  yourself  what  you  would 
have  felt  if  your  father  had  been  mur- 
dered and  your  mother  burnt  to  death 
in  the  city  of  the  Natches." 

Mina  threw  herself  into  Sister  Ger- 
trude's arms,  and  shed  tears  of  repent- 
ance for  her  fault,  and  of  joy  that  the 
little  brown  orphans  were  coming  to  a 


sheltering  roof.  From  that  day  a"  new 
era  began  in  her  school  life.  The  nuns 
had  rightly  judged  that  the  best  way 
of  softening  their  pupils'  feelings  tow- 
ards the  unfortunate  natives  was  to 
appeal  to  their  pity,  and  enlist  their 
sympathy  in  behalf  of  the  orphans. 
The  experiment  proved  successful.  A 
few  days  after  the  one  on  which  Emilie 
de  Beauregard  had  tumbled  off  the 
bench  in  the  midst  of  her  harangue, 
she  was  sitting  upon  it  with  a  brown 
baby  on  her  lap,  whilst  Mina,  kneeling 
before  her,  was  amusing  it  with  a  bunch 
of  feathers.  Rose  Perrier  and  Julie 
d'Artaban  were  quarrelling  for  the  pos- 
session of  another.  All  the  girls  were 
making  Mina  teach  them  Indian  words, 
that  they  might  know  how  to  talk  to 
the  little  savages,  who  became  quite  the 
fashion  in  the  school.  As  to  Mina,  she 
was  a  mother  to  them  all;  the  tiny 
creatures  clung  to  her  with  an  instinct- 
ive affection.  During  her  lessons  they 
would  sit  silent  and  motionless  at  her 
feet,  with  the  patience  which  even  in 
childhood  belongs  to  their  race,  and 
followed  her  about  the  garden  in  the 
hours  of  recreation  like  a  pack  of  little 
dogs.  Every  sweetmeat  given  to  her 
was  made  over  to  them,  and  the  only 
presents  she  valued  were  clothes  or  toys 
for  her  infant  charges.  Her  health  and 
spirits  rapidly  improved  under  this 
change  of  circumstances.  She  grew 
very  fast,  and  was  not  very  strong ;  but 
her  colour  returned,  and  bright  smiles 
were  again  seen  on  her  lovely  face. 

There  are  persons  whose  destiny  it 
seems  to  have  no  lasting  abode  on 
earth;  scattered  workers,  may  be,  or 
busy  idlers,  who,  during  the  whole 
course  of  their  lives,  pass  from  one 
place  to  another,  as  if  the  wanderer's 
doom  had  been  pronounced  upon  them. 
The  place  of  their  birth  knows  them 
no  more.  The  homes  of  their  child- 
hood, the  haunts  of  their  youth,  they 
never  revisit.  Every  local  attachment 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


they  form  is  blighted  in  the  bud.  The 
curtain  drops  on  each  successive  scene 
of  their  pilgrimage,  and^rm  is  stamped 
on  almost  every  page  of  their  existence. 
Some  call  this  a  strange  fatality ; 
others  see  in  it,  in  particular  instances, 
the  hand  of  God's  Providence  training 
particular  souls  to  detachment  and  self- 
sacrifice.  "  Le  Chretien  est-il  d'aucun 
lieu  ? "  asks  Emilie  de  Guerin,  who  was 
a  genius,  and  perhaps  a  saint  too,  with- 
out knowing  it. 

Thoughts  such  as  these,  though 
scarcely  put  into  shape,  but  vaguely 
floating  through  the  mind,  crossed 
Madame  d'Auban,  as  she  sat  one  even- 
ing planning  with  her  husband  the 
future  course  of  their  lives.  It  was 
almost  determined  between  them  that 
they  should  go  to  France.  Many  a 
sleepless  night,  many  an  hour  of  anxious 
thought,  had  she  spent  before  making 
up  her  mind  to  propose  this  journey. 
It  had,  however,  become  evident  that 
his  illness  was  increasing,  and  that  the 
best  medical  treatment  could  alone 
hold  out  a  prospect  of  recovery.  The 
physicians  at  New  Orleans  had  pro- 
nounced that,  within  a  few  months,  he 
would  have  to  undergo  an  operation, 
and  she  could  not  endure  the  thoughts 
of  trusting  to  the  unskilful  colonial 
surgeons.  It  seemed  but  too  probable 
that  he  would  not  henceforward  be 
equal  to  the  labours  and  fatigue  of  a 
planter's  existence;  and  the  climate 
of  Louisiana  was  daily  reducing  his 
strength  and  increasing  his  sufferings. 
She  did  not  long  hesitate,  but  with  a 
cheerful  smile  proposed  to  him  to  sell 
the  concessions,  to  part  with  St. 
Agathe !  They  had  much  increased  in 
value  during  the  last  ten  years,  and 
their  sale  would  realize  a  sum  sufficient 
to  insure  them  a  small  income.  It  was 
an  effort  and  a  sacrifice.  St.  Agathe 
was  connected  with  the  only  happy 
period  of  her  life.  Her  youth  had 
revived  in  that  beloved  spot.  There 


she  had  known  the  perfection  of  domes- 
tic happiness— there  she  had  been  blest 
as  a  wife  and  a  mother,  and  almost 
worshipped  by  all  about  her.  She  had 
walked  the  earth  with  her  head  erect, 
her  voice  undisguised,  and  her  heart  at 
rest.  No  fears,  no  misgivings,  had  dis- 
turbed her  sunny  hours,  or  marred  her 
nightly  rest  in  its  green  shades  and 
amidst  its  simple  inhabitants.  Since 
her  arrival  at  New  Orleans,  sudden 
tremors  had  sometimes  seized  her  at 
the  sight  of  persons  whose  faces  she 
fancied  were  familiar  to  her.  Or,  if  a 
stranger's  eyes  followed  her  in  the 
streets — and  this  often  happened,  for 
her  beauty  was  more  striking  than  it 
had  been  even  in  youth;  her  move- 
ments were  so  full  of  grace,  and  her 
figure  so  majestic,  that  it  was  difficult 
for  her  to  pass  unnoticed — she  hurried 
on  with  a  beating  heart,  or  hastily 
drew  down  her  veil.  Old  heart-aches 
had  returned — thoughts  of  the  past 
were  oftener  in  her  mind.  She  heard 
the  news  of  her  sister's  death  in  a 
casual  manner,  and  could  not  tell  even 
Mina  of  her  grief.  Her  residence  in 
the  French  town  was  a  foretaste  of 
what  would  henceforward  be  her  lot 
if  St.  Agathe  was  sold.  It  was  delib- 
erately closing  the  gates  of  her  earthly 
paradise  ;  but  then  she  knew  that  what 
had  been  for  ten  years  a  paradise  could 
be  so  no  longer.  Neither  her  husband 
nor  herself  could  ever  forget  what  they 
had  gone  through.  There  are  associa- 
tions which  can  never  be  cancelled. 
The  people,  the  language,  even  the 
natural  beauties  of  America,  could  not 
be  to  them  what  they  once  were.  No ; 
it  was  not  a  sacrifice  she  was  making— 
on  second  thoughts  she  became  con- 
scious of  this;  but  it  was  setting  tin- 
seal  to  a  doom  which  was  already  past 
recall. 

The  news  from  Europe  was  also 
preying  more  and  more  upon  her  iniml. 
Two  years  had  elapsed  since  notice  of 


158 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


the  Czar  Peter's  death  had  reached  the 
colony ;  and  now  intelligence  had  just 
arrived  of  the  Empress  Catherine's 
decease.  D'Auban  had  heard  this  one 
night  at  the  governor's  house,  and  had 
hastened  home  to  tell  his  wife. 

She  anxiously  asked,  "  And  what  of 
my  son  ?  " 

"He  has  been  proclaimed  emperor, 
and  Mentzchikoff  has  taken  charge  of 
his  person  and  of  the  reins  of  govern- 
ment." 

"  Ah !  I  now  understand  why  Cath- 
erine left  him  the  crown,  rather  than 
to  Anna  Ivanovna.  My  poor  child ! 
in  the  hands  of  such  men  as  Mentzchi- 
koff and  the  Narishkins,  what  will  be- 
come of  him  ? " 

"  Was  nothing  more  said  ? " 

"  No,  that  was  all." 

Madame  d'Auban's  lip  quivered ; 
and,  gathering  up  her  work,  she  has- 
tened to  a  terrace  which  commanded  a 
view  of  the  sea — she  felt  a  wish  to  be 
alone,  to  commune  with  herself  on  the 
news  she  had  just  heard ;  even  her  hus- 
band's presence  was  irksome  at  that 
moment.  The  forsaken  child  was 
uppermost  in  her  mind ;  the  change  in 
his  fate  brought  before  her  all  kinds  of 
new  thoughts.  He  was  now  an  empe- 
ror, a  czar,  that  young  boy  whose  face 
she  so  longed  to  see.  She  fancied  the 
shouts  of  the  people  when  he  was  pro- 
claimed— the  cries  of  "  Long  live  Peter 
the  Second !  "  They  seemed  to  ring 
in  her  ears  as  the  waves  broke  gently 
on  the  shore ;  and  then  she  wondered 
if  he  ever  thought  of  his  mother ;  if  he 
ever  noticed  her  picture ;  and  whether 
that  picture  was  hanging  in  the  same 
place  as  it  used  to  do,  above  the  couch 
where  she  was  sitting  on  the  day  when 
the  baby  of  a  year  old  had  been  brought 
to  see  her  for  the  last  time.  Her  name 
was  on  the  frame,  Charlotte  of  Bruns- 
wick Wolfenbuttel,  born  in  1696.  Had 
they  engraved  on  it  the  day  of  her 
death?  "He  sees  my  picture,"  she 


murmured;  "and  when  he  goes  to 
church,  he  sees  my  tomb.  Does  he 
ever  see  me  in  his  dreams  ?  I  have  some- 
times dreamt  of  him  very  distinctly, 
and  have  awoke  just  as  he  was  going 
to  speak  to  me.  Oh,  my  boy  emperor, 
my  young  czar,  my  crowned  child, 
would  not  you,  perhaps,  give  half  your 
empire  to  have  a  mother,  on  whose 
bosom  you  might  lay  your  fair  young 
head,  in  whose  arms  you  might  find 
refuge  from  bad  men  and  secret  foes  ? 
And  why  should  we  not  meet  again  ? 
Why  should  there  be  an  impassable 
gulph  between  us,  now  that  the  czar  is 
dead  and  the  empress  also,  and  that 
my  son,  my  own  son,  reigns  in  their 
stead?"  As  these  thoughts  passed 
through  her  mind,  an  ardent  desire  to 
return  to  Europe  took  possession  of 
her ;  not  that  she  formed  any  plan  of 
regaining  her  position;  not  that  she 
did  not  shudder  at  the  thought  of 
disclosing  her  existence,  and  at  the 
dangers  and  misery  to  her  husband 
and  herself  which  such  a  step  might 
involve  in  that  old  world,  which,  like 
M.  de  Talleyrand,  thought  mistakes 
worse  than  crimes,  and  mesalliances 
more  degrading  than  sin.  She  would 
have  died  sooner  than  conceal  her 
marriage;  but  secretly,  perhaps,  she 
might  venture  to  approach  her  son. 
If  the  Countess  de  Konigsmark  was 
still  alive — it  was  two  years  now  since 
she  had  heard  from  her — some  com- 
munication might  be  made  to  the 
young  emperor,  which  would  reestab- 
lish her,  not  near  his  throne,  indeed, 
but  as  a  living  mother  in  his  heart. 

She  spoke  to  her  husband  of  their 
vague  thoughts  and  hopes,  of  the  two- 
fold reasons  she  now  had  to  urge  their 
return  to  France,  and  their  decision 
was  at  last  taken.  D'Auban  had  doubt- 
ed a  long  time ;  he  had  mistrusted  his 
own  intense  longing  to  revisit  his  own 
country,  and  had  felt  afraid  for  his 
wife  of  a  return  to  Europe ;  but  an 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


159 


accidental  circumstance  which  occurred 
at  that  time,  but  which  he  kept  from 
her  knowledge,  hastened  his  acquies- 
cence. He  had  never  mentioned  to  her 
the  orders  which  had  been  sent  out 
from  Europe,  for  the  apprehension  of 
persons  suspected  of  the  robbery  of  her 
own  jewels.  The  reports  which  had 
been  circulated  regarding  M.  de  Cham- 
belle  and  herself  had  apparently  died 
away  since  his  death  and  her  marriage, 
but  he  had  never  felt  perfectly  easy  on 
the  subject,  and  about  this  time  he 
met  in  the  streets  Reinhart,  the  very 
man  who  had  been  most  active  in 
spreading  them.  The  next  day  he 
saw  him  hovering  near  his  house,  as  if 
watching  its  inmates.  This  circum- 
stance determined  him  to  leave  the 
colony.  A  purchaser  was  found  for 
the  United  Concessions,  and  St.  Agathe 
was  sold.  They  agreed  to  transmit  to 
Paris  the  sum  thus  realized,  and  to  pro- 
ceed to  France  by  the  next  vessel  which 
should  sail  from  New  Orleans.  Their 
intention  was  to  spend  there  the  time 
necessary  for  the  treatment  of  his  mala- 
dy, and,  when  his  health  was  reestab- 
lished, to  seek  for  a  post  under  gov- 
ernment in  some  of  the  dependencies 
of  France.  The  services  he  had  ren- 
dered during  the  insurrection  entitled 
him,  he  thought,  to  such  an  appoint- 
ment ;  and  he  had  friends  who,  he 
hoped,  would  lend  him  their  assistance 
in  advancing  his  claims.  She  nursed 
besides  many  a  romantic  vision,  many 
a  dream  of  a  journey  to  Russia  and  a 
secret  interview  with  her  son;  but 
these  were  silently  indulged  and  cher- 
ished, not  even  her  husband  knew  how 
much  she  built  upon  them. 

It  was  with  more  than  childish  grief 
that  Mina  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  coasts 
of  America,  as  the  "Ville  de  Paris" 
heaved  her  anchor,  and  the  wind  from 
the  shore  wafted  the  perfume  of  the 
orange  flower  from  the  gardens  of  the 
French  colonists.  Iler  mother  sighed 


as  she  saw  the  tears  which  filled  her 
eyes,  and  sorrowfully  asked  herself  if 
her  daughter  was  destined  to  te  always, 
like  herself,  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of 
the  earth. 

"A  year,  mamma,  is  not  that  what 
you  said  ? "  whispered  Mina,  trying  to 
smile.  "A  year,  and  then  we  shall 
return  to  St.  Agathe?" 

Madame  d'Auban  stroked  her  cheek 
without  answering.  She  wished  to 
keep  from  her  the  knowledge  of  the 
sale  of  St.  Agathe,  till  the  sight  of  other 
countries  and  the  awakening  of  other 
interests  had  diminished  the  vividness 
of  her  recollections. 

"  Papa  will  be  quite  well  in  a  year, 
and  then  we  can  go  back;  and  what 
joy  there  will  be  in  the  Mission  when 
we  arrive !  They  will  all  come  out  to 
meet  us  with  garlands  and  with  songs, 
as  they  used  to  do  when  dear  Father 
Maret  and  the  hunters  returned  from 
the  forests.  We  shall  be  so  happy ! " 

She  was  hoping  against  hope,  poor 
child.  There  was  in  her  mind  a  sus- 
picion of  the  truth,  and  she  spoke  in 
this  way  in  order  to  be  reassured.  When 
she  saw  her  mother  did  not  answer,  she 
slipped  away  and  sat  down  alone  in 
another  part  of  the  vessel.  Her  father 
went  to  look  for  her ;  she  threw  herself 
into  his  arms,  hid  her  face  in  his  breast, 
and  wept — 

Like  a  slight  young  tree,  that  throws 
The  weight  of  rain  from  its  drooping  boughs. 

But  when  she  raised  her  head  again, 

The  cloud  on  her  soul  that  lay, 
Had  melted  in  glittering  drops  away. 

She  had  conquered  her  grief  and  glad- 
dened his  heart  with  one  of  her  radiant 
smiles.  The  spirit  which  had  made 
her,  from  a  baby,  a  ruler  among  her 
companions,  had  been,  during  the  lost 
two  years,  trained  and  turned  in  another 
direction.  The  trials  of  her  school-life 
had  taught  her  to  rule  herself. 

The  arrival  at  a  place  we  have  not 
seen  for  many  years,  the  sight  of  objects 


160 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


familiar  to  us  in  our  youth — of  things 
we  recollect,  and  of  others  which  have 
changed  the  aspect  of  the  picture  im- 
printed in  our  memory,  has  generally 
something  melancholy  in  it — sometimes 
only  a  pleasing  sadness,  sometimes  a 
heavy  gloom.  When  it  is  a  quiet  coun- 
try landscape  we  gaze  on,  or  a  fine  ex- 
tensive view  of  sea  and  land,  or  a  moun- 
tainous region  half-way  between  us  and 
the  sky — such  reminiscences  are  far  less 
depressing  than  when  they  are  con- 
nected with  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 
the  great  thoroughfares  of  life.  In  a 
great  city,  when  you  enter  a  hotel  and 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  down  and 
think,  when  every  sight  and  sound  is 
at  once  familiar  and  strange,  when  for 
many  a  long  hour  you  are  alone  in  the 
midst  of  an  ever-rolling  tide  of  human 
beings,  the  feeling  of  solitude  is  pain- 
fully oppressive :  there  is  not  a  book 
on  your  table ;  no  one  knocks  at  your 
door ;  the  postman  brings  you  no  let- 
ter; carriages  roll  in  the  street,  but 
they  do  not  stop ;  you  mechanically 
listen  to  the  increasing  and  decreasing 
noise  as  they  approach,  go  by,  and 
recede;  you  go  to  the  window  and 
watch  the  passengers,  all  intent  upon 
something,  and  feel  as  if  you,  alone  in 
the  world,  had  nothing  to  do,  and  were 
stranded  for  the  time  being  on  the 
shore  of  the  great  stream  of  human 
life. 

M.  and  Madame  d'Auban  experienced 
this  very  powerfully  on  the  day  when 
they  took  up  their  residence  in  a  small 
lodging  which  a  friend  had  engaged 
for  them  in  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
streets  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 
To  be  once  more  in  Paris,  and  to  be 
there  together,  seemed  so  extraordinary. 
The  commonplace  aspect  of  every  thing 
about  them  was  in  itself  singular.  D'Au- 
ban was  very  tired  with  the  long  jour- 
ney, and  so  was  Mina.  He  sat  down 
near  the  window  and  fell  into  a  fit  of 
musing.  Mina  placed  herself  on  a  stool 


at  his  feet  and  watched  with  a  frown- 
ing countenance  the  carriages  and  foot- 
passengers  ;  then  she  took  out  her  pock- 
et-book and  wrote  in  it  the  following 
remarks  :  "August  5th,  1730.  We  are 
just  arrived  at  Paris.  It  is  a  very  ngly, 
melancholy  place— *iiot  at  all  like  the 
Illinois  or  Louisiana ;  it  is  like  a  great 
forest  of  houses.  Men  have  made  this 
forest,  and  Almighty  God  the  great 
forests  of  the  new  world ;  I  like  best 
Almighty  God's  work.  Papa  and  mam- 
ma do  not  look  happy ;  and  I  do  not 
like  France.  I  do  not  agree  with  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  who  said,  '  Adieu,  plai- 
sant  pays  de  France.'  I  say,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  '  Bonjour,  triste  pays  de 
France.'  She  had  never  seen  the  new 
beautiful  France  where  I  was  born — 
where  I  used  to  lie  down  on  the  grass 
under  the  pine-groves,  watching  the 
sunshine  through  the  green  branches — 
where  every  one  was  kind  to  us.  I 
want  to  go  back."  .  .  .  The  pencil 
dropped  from  the  young  girl's  hand, 
and  her  head  rested  against  her  father's 
knee.  She  had  fallen  asleep.  He 
picked  up  the  pocket-book  and  read 
what  she  had  written.  A  rather  sad 
smile  crossed  his  lips ;  then  taking  his 
daughter  in  his  arms,  he  carried  her 
into  the  back  room  and  laid  her  on  the 
bed  without  awaking  her. 

Madame  d'Auban,  meanwhile,  was 
taking  off  her  travelling  dress  and  un- 
packing her  things.  Once,  in  passing 
before  a  looking-glass,  she  stopped  and 
looked  attentively  at  her  own  face.  It 
was  still  a  very  beautiful  one,  and  the 
expression  of  her  matchless  eyes  was  as 
lovely  as  ever — but  of  that  she  could 
not  judge.  It  struck  her  that  she  looked 
much  older,  and  that  no  one  who  had 
known  her  in  former  days  would  be  the 
least  likely  to  recognize  her.  "  How 
foolish  I  am,"  she  thought,  "  to  be  al- 
ways so  afraid  of  seeing  people !  I  will 
try  to  feel  and  to  do  like  others ;  to 
shake  off  my  nervousness,  and  make 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


161 


acquaintance  with  my  husband's  friends. 
If  they  ask  me  what  my  maiden  name 
was,  what  shall  I  say  ? "  She  smiled  to 
herself,  and  said,  half  aloud,  "Mdlle. 
Desillinois." 

When  she  went  into  the  sitting-room, 
her  husband  raised  his  head  languidly 
and  said — "  I  wonder,  after  all,  why  we 
i  came  here." 

She  looked  at  him  anxiously,  and 
sitting  down  by  his  side,  answered, 
"  Because  I  would  come ;  because  I  care 
more  for  your  health  than  for  any  thing 
else  on  earth.  O  my  own !  my  own ! " 
she  exclaimed  with  passionate  tender- 
ness ;  "  my  beloved  one !  friend  to  more 
than  human  friendship  true !  what, 
without  you,  would  life  be  to  me  ? " 

"No,  no,"  d'Auban  replied  with  a 
troubled  look,  and  speaking  in  an  agi- 
tated manner.  "I  ought  not  to  have 
married  you.  I  should  have  insisted 
on  restoring  you  to  your  kindred." 

"  How  can  you  speak  in  that  way  ? 
it  was  impossible,"  said  his  wife,  half 
(impatiently. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Selfish  passion 
often  deceives  us,  and  happiness  hardens 
tthe  heart.  During  all  our  years  of 
bliss  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  had 
dealt  unjustly  by  you ;  but  since  I  have 
been  ill,  and  have  seen  you  wearing 
yourself  out  in  nursing  me,  and  since 
the  horrible  dangers  you  ran  two  years 
ago,  a  terrible  self-reproach  pursues  me ; 
it  is  that,  as  much  as  the  climate,  that 
(has  made  me  ill.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  let  this  go  on  without 
telling  me  that  you  had  such  a  wrong, 
such  a  foolish  thought!  O  Henri,  I 
can  hardly  forgive  you.  .  .  ." 

"What  was  the  use  of  speaking? 
Have  I  not  bound  you  to  me  by  irre- 
vocable ties  ?  Have  I  not  irreparably, 
injured  you?  No,  when  every  thing 
about  you  was  bright  and  beautiful, 
and  I  could  spend  every  hour  in  work- 
ing and  in  planning  for  your  happi- 
ness; when  every  one  who  came  near 
11 


you  loved  you  and  was  kind— as  that 
dear  child  wrote  in  her  journal  a  mo- 
ment ago — it  did  not  appear  to  me  in 
that  light.  I  did  not  regret  for  you 
the  loss  of  a  position  which,  but  for 
me,  you  might  yet  regain.  But  here, 
in  this  mean  lodging,  where  no  one 
notices  your  arrival  or  gives  you  a 
welcome ;  you,  who  would  once  have 
been  lodged  in  a  palace  and  had 
princes  and  nobles  at  your  feet ;  here, 
where  I  foresee  what  you  may  have  to 
suffer  with  and  for  me  ....  Oh,  my 
dear  heart,  it  is  more  than  I  can  en- 
dure. .  .  ." 

His  wife  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and 
there  was  a  tone  of  indignant  tender- 
ness in  her  voice  as  she  replied, 
"  Henri,  banish,  crush  such  thoughts 
as  you  would  an  unworthy  temptation ! 
They  pain,  they  wrong  me.  What 
next  to  faith  in  Him  is  God's  best  gift 
to  a  woman  ?  Is  it  not  the  love  of  a 
noble  heart  ?  To  you  I  owe  every  joy 
I  have  known  on  earth,  and  under  Him 
every  hope  of  heaven.  You  have 
taught,  consoled,  instructed,  and  guid- 
ed me.  You  saved  my  life,  alas !  at 
what  a  cost  He  knows,  and  so  do  L 
What  robbed  you  of  your  strength? 
what  ruined  your  health?  How  can 
you  talk  to  me  of  my  kindred,  of  pal- 
aces and  princes  ?  Henri,  arc  you  not 
the  light  of  my  eyes,  the  beloved  of  my 
heart,  dearer  and  better  to  me  than  ten 
sons  ?  O  God,  forgive  me  1 "  she  pas- 
sionately exclaimed,  falling  on  her 
knees ;  "  forgive  me  if  I  have  loved  one ' 
of  Thy  creatures  too  much— if  in  my 
happiness  I  have  not  thought  enough 
of  my  poor  boy.  If  even  now  poverty, 
suffering  with  my  husband  is  joy  com- 
pared to  the  brightest  fate  on  earth 
without  him.  O  Henri  1 "  she  said, 
turning  to  him  again,  "  you  must  have 
little  known  of  ray  love  to  speak  as 
you  did  just  now.  Never  again  say 
you  have  wronged  me ;  I  cannot  bear  it." 

D'Auban  was    deeply    moved,  and 


162 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


seized  her  hand.  "Forgive  me,  my 
love,  forgive  me,"  lie  cried.  "I  did 
not  mean  thus  to  agitate  you  ;  but  the 
wild  thought  did  pass  through  my 
mind  before  you  spoke  that  even  now 
I  ought  to  run  the  risk  of  being  parted 
from  you — that  I  ought  to  make  your 
name  and  position  known,  and  to  re- 
linquish the  offer;  yes,  I  thought  it 
might  be  my  duty,  a  blessing  I  do  not 
deserve." 

"  What  words  are  these,  Henri  ?  what 
evil  spirit  has  whispered  this  accursed 
thought  in  my  husband's  ear  ?  It  did 
not  reach  your  heart — by  my  own  I 
know  it  did  not.  O  hated  France! 
detested  Europe !  poisonous  air  of  an 
old  corrupted  world  !  Sooner  had  we 
both  died  by  the  hands  of  the  Natches, 
sooner  perished  on  the  shores  where 
we  first  met  and  first  loved,  than  that 
you  should  deem  it  possible  we  should 
part.  Listen  to  me,  Henri.  If  in  the 
first  days  of  our  happiness,  when  there 
was  not  a  gray  hair  on  your  head, 
when  your  arm  was  so  strong  that  you 
could  carry  me  like  an  infant  over  the 
streams  of  St.  Agathe,  I  should  have 
refused  to  separate  from  you  even  for 
the  sake  of  my  son,  or  for  any  other  af- 
fection or  interest  in  the  world,  do  you 
think  I  would  do  so  now,  when  your 
strength  has  been  spent  for  me,  and 
that  during  twelve  blessed  years  I  have 
learnt  every  day  to  love  you  more? 
Do  you  not  remember  that  that  God, 
the  God  whom  you  have  taught  me  to 
know  and  serve,  has  said  that  those 
whom  He  has  joined  together  men  may 
never  sunder  ?  But  we  have  been  talk- 
ing like  two  foolish  creatures — you  to 
frighten  me  so  uselessly,  and  I  to  take 
it  to  heart  and  answer  you  seriously." 

"  Well,"  said  d'Auban,  with  a  half- 
sad,  half-pleased  smile,  "I  believe  it 
was  a  fit  of  insanity ;  and  yet — " 

"A  good  night's  rest  will  restore 
your  senses,  dearest  heart ;  and  to-mor- 
row you  must  go  and  see  your  friends 


the  d'Orgevilles,  and  prepare  to  intrc 
duce  to  them  your  wife  ;  and  we  mus 
find  out  who  is  the  best  physician  w 
can  consult,  and  then  begin  to  see  ; 
little  of  this  wonderful  city.  Mina 
and  I  too  indeed,  will  stare  at  ever 
thing  like  savages.  I  must  also  lean 
a  little  French  housekeeping.  Ou 
hostess  will  put  me  in  the  way  of  it 
She  has  promised  to  show  us  the  wa; 
to  St.  Sulpice  to-morrow  morning 
You  must  lie  in  bed  and  rest.  Bu 
when  once  Mina  has  been  into  a  church 
she  will  feel  at  home  in  Paris,  and  no 
consider  it  quite  such  an  uncouth  plao 
as  she  does  to-day." 

D'Auban  smiled  more  gaily,  and  dui 
ing  the  rest  of  the  evening  watche( 
her  light  and  graceful  movements  a 
she  passed  from  one  room  to  the  other 
unpacking  their  clothes  and  books,  am 
gradually  giving  a  more  cheerful  lool 
to  the  dingy  little  apartment.  Hi 
thought  she  looked  so  like  a  princess 
that  it  seemed  to  him  difficult  thi 
world  should  not  recognize  the  imprin 
of  royalty  on  her  fair  brow  and  gracefu 
form. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  the  H6te 
d'Orgeville,  and  was  shown  into  th< 
same  salon  where,  so  many  years  ago 
he  had  spent  hour  after  hour.  Scarce 
ly  an  article  of  furniture  had  beer 
moved  from  the  place  in  which  h< 
remembered  it.  The  red  velvet  sofas 
and  high-backed  chairs,  and  the  fau 
teuil  where  the  mistress  of  the  house 
used  to  sit  when  she  received  company 
of  an  evening;  the  antique  cabinets 
with  folding  doors,  and  the  etageres 
loaded  with  china;  the  portraits  or 
the  walls — every  thing  was  looking  jusl 
as  it  did  on  the  night  when  he  had 
conversed  about  emigration  with  M.  d< 
Mesme  and  M.  Maret,  and  for  the  firsl 
time  thought  seriously  of  going  to 
America. 

When  Madame  d'Orgeville  came  into 
the  room,  he  perceived  that  her  face,  if 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


163 


not  her  furniture,  bore  witness  to  the 
lapse  of  years.  Her  hair  had  turned 
white,  and  rouge  supplied  the  place 
of  her  former  bloom.  Nothing  could 
be  more  cordial  than  her  greeting. 

"  Ah !  my  dear  colonel,"  she  ex- 
claimed, seizing  both  his  hands,  "  how 
charmed  I  am  to  see  you  1  What  cen- 
ituries  it  is  since  we  have  met !  and  how 
imany  things  have  happened  1  But  you 
are  not  looking  well  ? " 

"I  am  very  far  from  well,"  he  an- 
*wered.  "  We  colonists  go  in  search  of 
fortune,  madame,  and  often  lose  health, 

ic  greater  blessing  of  the  two." 

"  And  have  you  made  your  fortune  ? " 

"  Not  any  thing  to  boast  of— a  liveli- 
my  dear  friend,  nothing  more. 
Natches'  insurrection  depreciated 
value  of  property  in  New  France 
the  time  I  was  obliged  to  sell.  As 
as  I  get  well,  I  intend  to  try  and 
employment  in  the  colonies — if 
ible  in  the  Antilles." 

"  You  do  not  mean,  then,  to  return  to 
{Louisiana  ? " 

"  No,  madame,  not  if  I  can  help 
it." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  that,  after  all 
you  went  through,  and  the  terrible 
scenes  you  witnessed,  your  wife  and 
child  so  nearly  perishing,  and  your 
arriving  only  just  in  time  to  rescue 
them  and  the  other  captives.  I  assure 
jfou  it  was  much  spoken  of  at  the  time, 
m<l  you  are  considered  quite  a  hero. 
|So  many  people  will  be  wanting  to  see 
you,  I  expect  you  will  be  quite  the 
fashion.  M.  Maret  showed  us  the  in- 
teresting account  you  wrote  to  him  of 
brother's  death.  By  the  way,  you 
Isrill  meet  him  if  you  come  here  this 
evening.  He  may  be  of  use  to  you 
iljout  the  appointment  you  want.  He 
s  in  high  favour  at  present  with  mon- 
ueur  le  prince." 

D'Auban  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
mailing — it  was  so  exactly  the  same 
ihing  over  again,  as  in  past  years.  Be- 


fore he  had  time  to  answer,  Madame 
d'Orgeville  went  on : 

"  And  now  tell  me  about  your  mar- 
riage. Madame  d'Auban  is  French,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"  Her  mother  was  a  German.  Her 
father's  name  was  M.  de  Chambelle. 
I  suppose  you  never  heard  of  the  fam- 
ily ;  but  I  assure  you  that  she  is  une 
demoiselle  de  tres-bonne  maison." 

"  And  a  good  parti,  I  hope." 

"  She  brought  me,  as  her  dower,  a 
concession  of  some  importance,  which, 
had  my  health  allowed  me  to  remain  in 
America,  might  have  proved  valuable ; 
but  we  sold  every  thing  before  leaving 
America." 

"  And  you  have  a  daughter  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  little  Creole  of  twelve  years 
old,  who  looks  at  least  fifteen.  I  hope 
you  will  let  me  introduce  her  to  you." 

"Most  willingly.  And  now  that  I 
think  of  it,  my  carriage  is  at  the  door. 
Allow  me  to  reconduct  you  to  your 
home,  and  then  I  may  have,  perhaps, 
at  once  the  pleasure  of  making  Mad- 
ame d'Auban's  acquaintance." 

D'Auban  assented,  for  he  thought 
that  the  sooner  his  wife  got  over  the 
nervousness  she  felt  at  the  sight  of 
strangers  the  better  it  would  be,  and 
his  intimate  friends  she  must  needs 
see  during  her  stay  in  Paris.  Madame 
d'Orgeville  wished  to  show  her  old 
friend  every  kindness,  but  she  was  also 
very  curious  to  see  his  wife.  Some  of 
her  acquaintances,  who  had  been  at 
New  Orleans,  had  spoken  in  terms  of 
admiration  of  her  grace  and  beauty ; 
but  she  did  not  trust  to  their  taste,  and 
was  anxious  to  judge  for  herself  before 
inviting  her  to  her  house. 

She  was  taken  by  surprise,  not  so 
much  by  Madame  d'Auban's  beauty,  as 
by  the  singular  distinction  of  her  man- 
ner, and  the  pure  and  refined  French 
which'  she  spoke.  With  the  freedom 
of  Parisian  manners,  and  the  privilege 
which  people  who  are  at  the  head  of  a 


164 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


coterie  sometimes  assume,  of  saying 
whatever  comes  into  their  head,  she 
exclaimed,  in  the  midst  of  her  conver- 
sation with  her,  "  Good  heavens  !  how 
handsome  you  are,  madame,  and  what 
perfect  French  you  speak  !  Quite  the 
language  of  the  Court,  with  only  a 
shade  of  German  accent.  And  your 
manners,  your  voice,  your  whole  ap- 
pearance I  I  assure  you  I  should  have 
thought  you  had  always  lived  in 
Paris." 

Madame  d'Auban  smiled ;  but  Mina, 
who  was  being  led  into  the  room  at 
that  moment  by  her  father,  heard  Mad- 
ame d'Orgeville's  words,  and  deeply 
resented  them.  "Why  should  not 
mamma  be  beautiful  ? "  she  thought, 
"and  why  should  she  not  be  perfect 
in  every  way,  though  she  has  not  lived 
in  this  odious  Paris  ? "  Mina's  face 
was  one  of  those  which  a  frown  be- 
comes almost  as  much  as  a  smile,  and 
when,  after  kissing  her  on  both  cheeks, 
Madame  d'Orgeville  called  her  a  charm- 
ing creole,  the  indignant  look  which 
she  put  on  made  her  look  so  pretty, 
that  that  lady,  during  the  rest  of  her 
visit,  could  hardly  take  her  eyes  off 
her.  "  She  is  quite  as  pretty  as  Mad- 
ame de  Prie,"  she  thought,  "  and  with 
an  expression  of  purity  and  innocence 
such  as  I  have  never  yet  seen.  That 
face  will  make  her  fortune,  if  it  does 
not  prove  her  ruin.  I  am  rather  glad 
my  daughters  are  not  so  strikingly 
beautiful.  I  believe  the  safest  thing 
for  a  woman  is  to  be  tolerably  good- 
looking,  and  have  a  good  dowery." 
Whilst  these  reflections  were  passing 
through  her  mind  she  was,  with  that 
wonderful  power  some  people  possess 
of  being  engrossed  with  two  subjects 
at  once,  most  earnestly  recommending 
to  Madame  d'Auban  a  physician  of  the 
name  of  Lenoir,  who,  she  assured  her, 
was  one  of  the  first  medical  men  in 
Paris.  She  ended  by  inviting  them  all 
to  dinner  for  the  next  day,  and  pro- 


posed that  Mina  should  spend  the 
afternoon  with  her  daughters  and  some 
of  their  friends. 

That  afternoon  proved  a  beautiful 
one.  The  weather  was  warm  without 
being  hot,  the  sun  shining  brightly,  and 
the  sky  cloudless.  The  garden  of  the 
Hotel  d'Orgeville  was  full  of  autumnal 
flowers,  choice  roses  and  China  asters. 
The  trees  were  beginning  to  put  on 
their  brown  and  red  colouring,  and  the 
grass  plot  in  the  centre  was  studded 
with  buttercups  and  daisies. 

Mina,  who  for  months  had  not  seen 
a  garden,  and  scarcely  a  flower,  was  in 
ecstasies.  The  wearisome  sea  voyage 
had  been  succeeded  by  the  journey  to 
Paris  in  a  close  diligence,  and  two  days 
in  the  entresol  of  the  Rue  des  Saints 
Peres.  If  she  had  been  alone,  her  de- 
light would  have  been  unbounded.  As 
it  was,  she  could  not  resist  taking  a  run 
across  the  grass,  and  timidly  asking 
Julie  d'Orgeville  if  she  might  gather 
some  buttercups — a  permission  which 
was  graciously  granted,  with  a  rather 
supercilious  smile,  for  Mdlle.  d'Auban 
was  half  a  head  taller  than  Mdlle.  Julie, 
and  for  a  girl  of  that  height  she  deemed 
it  rather  a  childish  amusement.  The 
young  ladies  sat  down  on  a  semicirculai 
stone  bench  at  the  end  of  an  alley  of 
plane-trees,  and  began  to  converse  in 
an  undertone,  which  gradually  rose  to 
a  higher  key,  as  the  subjects  under  dis- 
cussion became  more  interesting.  A 
little  girl  of  ten  years  of  age  asked  whal 
they  were  going  to  play  at. 

Mademoiselle  d'Orgeville  said,  "We 
most  of  us  prefer  conversation ;  but  you 
may,  if  you  like,  propose  to  the  youngei 
part  of  the  society  to  play  at  ladies." 

"  What  will  she  do  ? "  said  the  leadei 
of  the  younger  ones,  pointing  to  Minaj 

"  What  would  you  like  best,  Mdlle 
d'Auban?"  asked  Julie,  with  greai 
civility. 

"  "What  do  you  do  when  you  play  a 
ladies V'  inquired  the  latter,  raising 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


165 


her  large  blue  eyes  from  the  flowers  she 
had  on  her  knees. 

"  Oh,  one  is  Madame  la  Duchesse,  and 
another  Madame  la  Princesse,  and 
another  Madame  la  Marquise,  and  so 
on." 

"  Then  one,  you  know,  has  Us  grandes 
entrees  at  Court,"  cried  a  little  girl. 

"  And  the  duchesses  have  tabourets," 
said  another.  • 

"  And  then  we  stand  at  the  door  of 
the  arbour,  and  pretend  it  is  the  queen's 
dressing-room ;  and  we  go  in  according 
>o  our  ranks  and  stand  by  her  Majesty ; 
and  Madame  la  Duchesse  hands  her 
aer  shift,  if  there  is  no  one  of  higher 
rank  in  the  room;  but  if  one  of  the 
princesses  comes  in,  she,  of  course,  gives 
t  up  to  her.  .  .  ." 

"  Which  is  to  be  the  queen  ? "  asked 
Mina,  looking  round  the  circle. 

"  We  always  draw  lots  for  that.  By 
the  way,  do  you  know,  mesdemoiselles, 
that  my  mother  says  that  yesterday,  at 
the  funeral  of  the  Princesse  de  Conti, 
Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Boufflers  pushed 
y,  and  would  not  let  Mademoiselle  de 
llermont  sprinkle  the  corpse  before  she 
lad  done  so  herself.  But  she  had  all 
the  trouble  in  the  world  to  prevent  it." 

"  But  my  papa  says  that  it  is  quite 
ridiculous  to  suppose  that  duchesses 
lave  that  right." 

"  Then  your  papa  is  mistaken,  made- 
moiselle. And  if  I  play  at  going  to 
'ourt  to-day,  I  shall  be  Madame  de 
Boufflers,  and  nothing  shall  induce  me 
to  yield  up  that  point." 

"  Well,  all  I  know  is  that  I  went  to 
see  Mdlle.  de  St.  Simon  yesterday,  and 
that  she  says  the  pretensions  of  the 
Duchesse  de  Boufflers  are  quite  shock- 
ing, and  that  she  should  never  have 
taken  precedency  of  Mademoiselle  de 
lennont,  who  was  representing  the 
Queen." 

"  Who  cares  what  that  ugly  girl  says  ? 
She  is  like  a  note  of  interrogation — a 
ittle  crooked  thing,  always  asking 


questions,^  laying  down  the  law  like 
the  cross  old  duke  her  father." 

"  Would  you  like  to  be  the  queen, 
Mademoiselle  d'Auban?  You  may  if 
you  like,"  said  the  leader  of  the  youth- 
ful band. 

"No,  thank  you,"  answered  Mina; 
"  I  should  not  know  how  to  behave." 
She  thought  of  her  grassy  throne,  and 
her  sable  courtiers  who  used  to  call  her 
their  chief,  in  the  green  prairies  far 
away;  but  that  was  not  like  playing 
at  being  the  queen  of  France,  and  she 
said  she  should  like  better  to  stay  where 
she  was,  and  to  tie  up  her  buttercups. 

An  animated  conversation  was  carried 
on  by  the  elder  girls,  which  chiefly 
related  to  their  various  prospects,  and 
the  intentions  of  their  parents  with  re- 
gard to  their  establishment  in  life. 
Some  were  already  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried, though  they  had  never  seen  their 
future  husbands.  Some  were  to  be 
married  as  soon  as  a  suitable  alliance 
could  be  found  for  them.  Some  hoped, 
and  some  feared,  they  might  have  to 
go  into  religion.  They  talked  of  the 
good  luck  of  one  of  their  friends,  who 
had  become  the  wife  of  a  gentleman 
whose  position  at  Court  would  enable 
her  to  take  precedency  of  her  sister, 
who  had  wedded,  the  year  before,  a 
wealthy  jurisconsulte,  a  cousin  of  the 
Messieurs  Paris.  One  young  lady  they 
mentioned,  Alice  le  Pelletier,  was  act- 
ually about  to  be  married  to  the  son 
of  a  due  et  pair.  "  But  then,  you  know, 
she  is  immensely  rich,"  said  Julie 
d'Orgeville,  "and  her  mother  was  a 
Beaufort.  Do  your  parents  intend  to 
marry  you  in  France,  Mademoiselle 
d'Auban?"  she  asked  of  Mina,  who 
answered  with  simplicity — 

"  I  don't  think  they  mean  to  marry 
me  at  all." 

"  Are  you,  then,  going  into  religion  ? " 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  it,"  Mina 
said.  «" 

"  I  suppose  you  have  thought  of  very 


166 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


little  yet,  my  dear,  but  playthings  and 
sweetmeats,"  said  Julie,  good-humour- 
edly,  but  in  rather  a  contemptuous 
manner. 

Mina  blushed,  but  made  no  reply. 
How  little  the  elder  girl  knew  of  the 
depths  of  thought  and  feeling  in  the 
soul  of  that  child,  who  had  gone  through 
more  emotions,  and  waged  more  inward 
battles,  and  exercised  more  virtues  al- 
ready, than  she  had  ever  dreamt  of  in 
her  limited  sphere  of  thought  and  ac- 
tion !  Julie  d'Orgeville  was  not  without 
amiable  qualities,  and  her  principles 
were  good ;  so  were  those  of  many  of 
the  young  girls  gathered  together  on 
that  occasion.  Some  of  them  event- 
ually became  excellent  wives  and 
mothers,  and  exemplary  fervent  nuns. 
But  they  were  impregnated  for  the 
time  with  the  levity  and  the  prejudices 
of  the  worldly  society  to  which  they 
belonged,  and  reflected  in  a  childish 
form  the  aspect  it  presented. 

Mina  felt  miserably  at  a  loss  in  their 
company.  They  were  neither  like  wo- 
men nor  like  children.  She  could  not 
reach  high  enough,  or  descend  low 
enough,  to  be  on  a  level  with  them ; 
hers  had  been  such  a  totally  different 
training.  Crime  and  virtue,  innocence 
and  guilt,  are  perhaps  less  strange  to 
each  other,  as  far  as  sympathy  goes, 
than  worldliness  and  unworldliness. 
Erring  souls  sometimes  appreciate 
goodness.  Where  there  is  guilt  there 
is  often  remorse,  and  remorse  is  feeling. 
But  the  worshippers  of  rank,  fashion, 
and  wealth  look  with  a  comfortable 
sense  of  superiority  on  those  who  do 
not  adore  the  same  idols  as  themselves. 
A  worldly  child  sounds  like  a  singular 
anomaly,  but  the  thing  exists,  and  the 
principles  of  worldliness  are  never  so 
broadly  displayed  as  in  such  cases; 
for  childhood  is  consistent ;  thoughts, 
words,  and  actions  are  all  in  accord- 
ance. Plausibility  is  the  growth  of  a 
inore  advanced  period  of  life ;  a  slowly- 


acquired  quality  which  it  requires  time 
to  mature. 

Mina's  parents  felt  in  some  ways  as 
little  at  home  in  the  salon  of  the  Hotel 
d'Orgeville  as  she  did  in  the  school- 
room. After  so  long  an  absence  they 
were  not  conversant  with  the  state  of 
parties  such  as  it  existed  at  that  time 
in  Paris,  or  with  the  intrigues  which 
were  carried  on  in  the  court  and  in 
the  town.  The  tone  of  society  often 
astonished  them.  People  who  were 
reckoned  good  said  very  strange  things 
in  those  days,  and  allowed  themselves 
an  extraordinary  latitude  of  thought 
and  speech.  D'Auban  had  left  Paris 
at  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIY. 
The  whole  period  of  the  Regency  had 
gone  by  during  his  absence,  and  im- 
pressed on  French  society  dire  traces 
of  its  influence.  His  wife  had  witnessed 
in  Russia  crime  and  brutality,  degrad- 
ing vices  and  coarse  buffoonery,  but 
the  polished  iniquity,  the  ruthless  levity 
of  Parisian  manners  was  new  to  her. 
They  were  also  no  doubt  changed  them- 
selves by  the  solitary  earnest  lives  they 
had  led,  by  the  holy  joys  and  sacred 
sorrows  they  had  experienced,  and  felt 
more  deeply  than  others  would  have 
done  the  pain  of  witnessing  the  increas- 
ing immorality  and  irreligion  of  the 
higher  classes  of  French  society;  of 
hearing  the  praises  of  vile  miscreants 
and  poisonous  writings  from  the  lips 
of  men  who  still  believed  in  Christian- 
ity, who  went  through  the  forms  of 
religion,  and  summoned  priests  to  their 
deathbeds ;  of  watching  the  rising  tide 
of  corruption  which  was  to  widen  &nd 
deepen  for  fifty  years  till  the  founda- 
tions of  the  throne  and  the  altar  fell 
to  the  ground,  and  the  deluge  of  the 
revolution  swept  away  every  landmark. 
The  epoch  in  question  was  indeed  the 
beginning  of  that  terrible  end,  and 
more  trying  perhaps  to  the  true  of 
heart  than  the  fatal  consummation 
which,  with  all  its  horrors  and  its 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


167 


sufferings,  gave  evidence  of  the  faith 
and  goodness  latent  in  many  of  those 
•  who  had  sported  on  the  brink  of  the 
I  precipice,  but  when  it  opened  under 
I  their  feet  became  martyrs  or  heroes. 

The  18th  century  is  a  sad  picture  to 
look  back  upon,  but  in  the  midst  of 
all  its  sin  and  growing  unbelief  what 
redeeming  instances  of  virtue  and 
purity  mark  the  pages  of  its  history ! 
Where  can  more  admirable  models  be 
found  of  true  and  undefiled  religion 
than  in  the  wife,  the  son,  and  the 
daughter  of  Louis  XV.  ?  In  the  same 
palace,  under  the  same  roof  as  Madame 
de  Pompadour,  Marie  Leckzinska,  the 
Dauphin,  his  Saxon  wife,  and  Mesdames 
de  France  served  God  and  loved  the 
poor  with  a  humble  fidelity  and  patient 
perseverance  which  surprise  us  when 
we  read  their  biographies  and  remem- 
ber the  age  and  the  Court  in  which 
their  lot  was  cast. 

At  the  time  when  Madame  d'Auban 
was  in  Paris,  the  young  king  of  France 
was  still  devoted  to  his  wife.  With 
an  open  brow  and  a  bright  smile  he 
would  say,  when  another  woman's 
beauty  was  insidiously  commended  in 
his  presence,  "  She  is  not,  I  am  certain^ 
as  handsome  as  the  queen."  So  he 
thought  and  felt  as  long  as  the  wicked- 
ness of  his  courtiers  and  their  vile 
instruments  had  not  seduced  him  from 
his  allegiance  to  his  gentle  wife.  But 
they  laid  their  plans  with  consummate 
skill.  They  carried  them  on  with 
diabolical  art ;  they  took  advantage  of 
his  weakness ;  step  by  step  they  drag- 
ged him  down  into  the  abyss  of  deg- 
radation in  which  his  latter  years 
were  sunk.  They  turned  the  idol  of 
his  people,  the  well-beloved  of  a  great 
nation,  into  the  abject  slave  of  Madame 
Dubarry,  the  mark  of  a  withering 
scorn,  the  disgrace  of  a  polluted  throne. 

Is  there  a  greater  sin,  one  that  cries 
more  loudly  to  heaven  for  vengeance, 
than  the  cold-blooded,  deliberate  de- 


sign of  ruining  the  happiness  and 
poisoning  the  peace  of  those  whose 
own  souls  are  not  only  at  stake,  but 
whose  example  may  influence  thou- 
sands for  good  or  for  evil  ?  Who  can 
foresee  the  consequences  of  such  guilt, 
if  successful  ?  Who  can  say  that  the 
crimes  of  the  French  Revolution,  the 
murder  of  an  innocent  king,  the  more 
than  murder  of  his  consort  and  his 
sister,  the  tortures  of  his  hapless  child, 
will  not  be  laid  on  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment at  the  door  of  those  who  con- 
spired to  ruin  the  domestic  happiness 
of  Louis  XV.,  and  to  drag  him  down 
to  the  level  of  their  own  ignominy? 
God  forgive  them ;  though  we  can 
scarcely  add,  "They  knew  not  what 
they  did!" 

Thoughts  akin  to  these  were  in  Mad- 
ame d'Auban's  mind,  and  made  her 
woman's  heart  throb  with  indignation 
when  she  heard  one  day  in  Madame 
d'Orgeville's  salon,  a  ^roup  of  men 
and  women  of  the  world  turning  into 
ridicule  the  king's  affection  for  the 
queen,  and  predicting,  with  exultation, 
that,  thanks  to  the  manoeuvres  of  the 
Dues  d'Epernon  and  de  Gesore,  and 
the  dawning  charms  of  Madame  de 
Mailly,  it  would  not  be  of  long  dura- 
tion. She  had  known  the  pangs  of 
desertion,  the  anguish  which  hides 
itself  under  forced  smiles,  the  utter 
helplessness  of  an  injured  wife,  more 
helpless  on  or  near  a  throne  than  in  a 
cottage,  because  her  sufferings  are 
watched  an.d  her  tears  counted. 

"  Poor  queen,"  she  inwardly  exclaim- 
ed, "  poor  Marie  Leckzinska  I  If  a  man 
stabbed  thee  to  the  heart  he  would  be 
broken  on  a  wheel;  but  how  many 
assassins  there  are  who  arc  not  punished 
in  this  world ! "  Monsieur  Maret  was 
sitting  by  her  at  that  moment;  she 
said  a  word  or  two  which  showed  on 
what  subject  her  thoughts  were  run- 
ning. "  But  would  it  have  been  possi- 
ble to  expect,"  he  answered,  "that  the 


168 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


queen  should  go  through  life  without 
some  great  sufferings?  Is  there  not 
always  some  striking  compensation  to 
be  looked  for  in  the  destiny  of  a  per- 
son who  has  been  singularly  favoured 
by  fortune  ?  Picture  to  yourself,  if  you 
can,  madame,  a  more  unexampled  in- 
stance of  good  luck  than  hers." 

"  It  remains  to  be  seen,"  said  Mad- 
ame d'Auban,  "  if,  after  all,  her  unfore- 
seen elevation  to  the  throne  proves  so 
great  a  blessing.  But  explain  to  me, 
sir,  how  it  happened  that  the  penniless 
daughter  of  a  dethroned  sovereign 
should  have  become  the  bride  of  Louis 
XV." 

"The  Due  de  Bourbon,  or  rather 
Madame  de  Prie,  who  rules  in  his 
name,  considered  that  the  future  queen 
might  prove  a  dangerous  element  of 
opposition  to  his  ministry  if  he  did  not 
secure  her  allegiance  to  him  by  the  tie 
of  gratitude.  And  so  they  bethought 
themselves  of  the  daughter  of  King 
Stanislaus,  whom  the  regent  had  per- 
mitted out  of  charity  to  inhabit  an  old 
mansion  half  in  ruins  in  Weissenburg. 
Conceive  the  moment  when  this  poor 
king  opened  the  Due  de  Bourbon's 
letter,  perhaps  fearing  an  order  to  leave 
France  within  twenty-four  hours,  and 
then  found  it  contained  a  proposal  of 
marriage  from  the  King  of  France  to 
his  daughter !  From  the  King  of 
France  !  who  had  just  sent  back  an  in- 
fanta, and  for  the  sake  of  whose  alliance 
every  monarch  in  Europe  would  have 
given  one  of  his  fairest  provinces.  I 
wonder  he  did  not  die  of  joy  !  " 

"  I  wonder  what  she  felt,"  ejaculated 
Madame  d'Auban,  who  was  thinking 
of  the  day  when  her  own  father  had 
said  to  her,  "  My  daughter,  I  wish  you 
joy.  The  Czar  Peter  has  chosen  you 
from  amongst  thirteen  German  prin- 
cesses to  be  the  Czarovitch's  bride." 

"  The  Due  d'Antin  has  told  us  that 
Stanislaus  went  straight  into  the  room 
where  his  wife  and  daughter  were 


mending  their  linen,  and  said,  *  Let  us 
kneel  down  and  thank  God.'  'O 
dear  father!'  the  princess  exclaimed, 
'are  you  restored  to  the  throne  of 
Poland?'  'No,  my  daughter;  it  is 
something  better  than  that.  You  are 
Queen  of  France.'  She  had  just  been 
refused  by  the  Duke  of  Baden !  D'An- 
tin went  to  Strasburg  with  the  Due 
de  Beauvilliers  to  compliment  the  bride. 
He  had  to  make  a  speech  and  he  com- 
mitted a  comical  blunder,  an  egregious 
one  for  such  a  courtier  !  In  his  address 
to  the  Princess  he  said  that  M.  le  Due 
might  have  chosen  a  Queen  of  France 
amongst  his  own  sisters,  but  virtue  was 
what  he  was  seeking  for,  and  he  knew 
where  to  look  for  it.  Mdlle.  de  Cler- 
mont,  who  is  mistress  of  the  Princess's 
household,  was  standing  behind  her 
chair,  and  whispered  to  the  person 
next  to  her,  'What  does  M.  d'Antin 
take  us  for,  my  sisters  and  myself  ? ' " 

Madame  d'Auban  smiled,  and  was 
going  to  make  some  observation  in  re- 
ply, when  the  door  was  thrown  open 
and  his  Excellency  the  Russian  Ambas- 
sador was  announced. 

D'Auban  had  ascertained  that  the 
persons  composing  the  Russian  Em- 
bassy at  Paris  had  none  of  them  been 
at  St.  Petersburgh  at  the  time  when 
they  could  have  seen  his  wife.  Still 
he  looked  towards  her  with  uneasiness 
when  Prince  Kourakin  came  in.  He 
saw  her  colour  at  the  first  moment, 
and  then  turn  very  pale.  There  were 
not  many  persons  in  the  room.  When 
the  ambassador  had  paid  his  compli- 
ments to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  the 
conversation  became  general. 

M.  d'Orgeville  asked  if  there  was 
any  news. 

"Great  news  from  my  court,"  said 
Prince  Kourakin.  "I  have  just  re- 
ceived despatches  containing  the  an- 
nouncement of  a  coup  d'etat  at  St. 
Petersburgh." 

"What!  what!"  exclaimed  several 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


160 


persons,  amongst  whom  was  d'Auban, 
who  saw  his  wife's  eyes  fixed  upon 
Prince  Kourakin  with  intense  anxiety. 

"  Mentzchikoff  is  overthrown  and  on 
his  way  to  Siberia ! " 

"  Incredible !  wonderful !  "  cried 
Madame  d'Orgeville.  "What  an  im- 
portant event  1  Whose  doing  is  it  ? 

"Our  Imperial  Master's.  Mentzchi- 
koff had,  as  you  know,  betrothed  him 
to  his  own  daughter  and  kept  him  in 
a  state  of  absolute  subjection.  The 
Czar  could  not  walk,  or  ride,  or  eat,  or 
speak  but  by  the  orders  of  his  minister. 
This  was  carried  on  a  little  too  far  and 
a  little  too  long.  It  is  not  safe  to  bully 
a  lion's  whelp.  You  cannot  foresee 
the  moment  when  he  will  find  out  he 
is  a  lion." 

"  And  he  has  done  so  now ! "  said 
M.  Maret. 

"  With  a  vengeance ;  he  has  roared 
to  some  effect,  too." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  heaj  it,"  cried 
Madame  d'Orgeville.  "  You  must  for- 
give me,  my  dear  ambassador,  but  I 
could  never  get  over  the  pastry-cook's 
elevation ;  the  cakes  stuck  in  my 
throat." 

Kourakin  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  took  snuff.  "  I  might  say  the  same 
if  the  poor  man  was  not  now  in  dis- 
grace. One  does  not  like  to  speak  ill 
of  the  fallen." 

"  Then,  why  did  he  not  say  so  when 
the  poor  man  was  on  his  legs  ? "  whis- 
pered M.  Muret  to  Madame  d'Auban, 
who  did  not  hear  him,  and  was  breath- 
lessly watching  for  Kourakin's  next 
words,  and  trembling  lest  the  subject 
should  drop.  But  everybody  wished 
to  hear  the  details  of  the  minister's 
fall,  and  he  said,  "You  remember 
Dolgorouki?  He  was  here  with  the 
Czar  Peter  some  years  ago.  His  son 
and  the  little  Princess  Elizabeth  were 
the  czar's  only  playfellows.  Young 
Dolgorouki  always  slept  in  his  room, 
and  took  every  occasion  to  excite  his 


young  sovereign's  resentment  against 
Mentzchikoff.  On  the  5th  of  last  month 
he  was  staying  with  him  at  Peterhoff. 
There  he  received  orders  from  his  fa- 
ther to  persuade  the  czar  to  jump  out 
of  the  window  in  the  night,  and  make 
his  way  to  a  spot  where  an  escort  was 
to  be  in  readiness  to  conduct  him  to 
St.  Petersburg!! ;  every  thing  was  pre- 
pared in  the  city  for  an  outbreak 
against  the  minister.  The  young  mon- 
arch was  nothing  loth,  and  reached 
the  capital  in  safety.  Once  there  the 
imperial  guard,  the  army,  and  the  peo- 
ple, excited  by  the  Dolgoroukis,  gath- 
ered round  the  prince,  with  loud 
cries  of  '  Long  live  the  Czar ! '  '  Long 
live  Peter  the  Second!'  'Down  with 
Mentzchikoff!'  and  by  the  time  the 
minister  heard  of  the  plot,  his  cause 
was  hopeless,  and  his  banishment 
decreed.  By  this  time  he  must  be 
moralizing  at  Yakouska,  unless  he  has 
died  on  the  way  of  grief  and  spite.  It 
is  supposed  the  czar  will  marry  the 
sister  of  young  Dolgorouki." 

"  This  is  a  most  interesting  episode," 
observed  one  lady.  "And  I  know 
nothing  to  be  compared  to  it  in  sudden- 
ness, since  poor  M.  Fouquet's  disgrace." 

"M.  de  Frejus  narrowly  escaped  a 
similar  fate,"  said  M.  Maret. 

"  Ah  !  the  wily  churchman,"  cried 
Kourakin,  "  took  quite  a  different  line 
with  his  royal  pupil  than  .  .  ." 

"The  pastry-cook  with  his,"  inter- 
rupted Madame  d'Orgeville;  "and  it 
has  certainly  answered  better." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  the  Russian  am- 
bassador, a  little  nettled,  "  I  like  better 
to  see  a  young  monarch  dismiss  an  ar- 
rogant minister,  than  cry  over  the  loss 
of  a  favourite  tutor  like  a  child  after 
its  nurse." 

A  few  more  remarks  were  made,  and 
then  the  conversation  turned  to  otlu  r 
topics.  When  M.  d'Auban,  his  wife, 
and  his  little  girl  returned  home  that 
night,  they  all  looked  ill  and  tired. 


170 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO     BE    TRUE. 


Madame  d'Auban  could  not  sleep  that 
night,  or  if  she  closed  her  eyes  a  mo- 
ment, her  dreams  were  agitating. 
Waking  and  sleeping  she  kept  revisit- 
ing the  land  where  her  son  was  reign- 
ing, and  picturing  to  herself  what  had 
recently  taken  place  in  those  scenes 
she  knew  so  well :  at  Peterhoff,  the  im- 
perial boy  leaping  out  of  the  window 
in  the  darkness  of  the  night;  in  St. 
Petersbnrgh,  the  people  hailing  him 
like  a  rescued  captive.  She  felt  proud 
of  the  energy  he  had  shown.  She  was 
glad  he  had  escaped  from  an  unworthy 
thraldom,  but  how  would  he  use  his 
liberty,  and  how  wield  the  fatal  sceptre 
of  irresponsible  power?  Haunted  by 
visions  of  tortured  criminals,  of  barbar- 
ous executions  and  degrading  buffoon- 
eries, she  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
her  son  in  the  midst  of  such  a  court, 
and  growing  familiar  with  vice  and 
cruelty,  till,  her  mother's  heart  could 
scarcely  endure  the  anguish.  She  rose 
from  her  sleepless  bed  to  pray  that  she 
might  soon  force  her  way  to  his  side, 
and  speak  to  him,  if  it  was  only  once, 
of  justice  and  of  mercy,  of  God  and  of 
eternity.  During  those  hours  of  the 
night  when  one  idea  engrosses  the 
mind  with  all-absorbing  power,  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  must  set  out  for 
Russia  the  very  next  day.  Wild  pro- 
jects of  revealing  her  existence  to  the 
King  of  France  or  Prince  Kourakin 
flitted  through  her  brain,  but  they  van- 
ished with  the  morning  light.  She  had 
already  ascertained  that  the  Countess  de 
Konigsmark  had  died  a  short  time  ago, 
after  a  lingering  illness  of  nearly  two 
years,  which  latter  circumstance  ac- 
counted for  her  silence  since  the  death  of 
the  Czar  Peter.  Of  the  two  other  persons 
who  had  been  concerned  in  the  plot 
for  her  escape,  she  had  no  means  of 
hearing.  Their  obscure  situation  made 
it  more  difficult  to  ascertain  what  had 
become  of  them.  But  her  anxiety  on 
this  point  was  superseded,  and  all  idea 


of  leaving  Paris  put  an  end  to  for  a 
time,  by  her  husband's  increasing  ill- 
ness. 

For  many  succeeding  weeks  she  haci 
but  one  thought  and  one  care.  Dr.  Le- 
noir  was  called  in.  He  proved  to  be  a 
relative  of  Madame  d'Auban's  fellow- 
captive  in  Louisiana,  and  had  heard  of 
her  kindness  to  the  poor  foolish  creature, 
as  he  disrespectfully  called  his  brother's 
widow.  Colonel  d'Auban's  case,  he 
said,  required  profound  repose  of  body 
and  mind.  His  strength  was  to  be  sus- 
tained by  every  possible  means,  and 
every  thing  agitating  or  painful  as  far  as 
possible  kept  from  him.  Under  favour- 
able circumstances  he  would  venture 
to  predict  a  complete  recovery,  other- 
wise he  would  not  be  answerable  for 
his  life.  This  was  the  opinion  he  pri- 
vately gave  to  Madame  d'Auban.  The 
treatment  would  probably  last  about 
four  months — good  air  and  a  cheerful 
situation,  w;thin  reach  of  his  own  daily 
visits,  he  deemed  indispensable. 

When  he  had  left  the  room,  Madame 
d'Auban  collected   her  thoughts  and 
made  her  calculations.     There  would 
not  be,  at  present,  any  question  of  their 
going  into  society;   and  this  she  was 
glad  of,   except    for  one  reason — she 
might  lose  the  chance  of  hearing  news 
from  Russia ;  but  still  she  hoped  that 
this  loss  might  be  supplied  by  the  visits 
at  home  of  a    few  intimate  friends. 
Mina  should  continue  to  go  to  the  H6tel 
d'Orgeville,  in  order  to  acquire,  in  the 
society  of  the  young  people  she  met 
there,  the  manners  of  her  own  country. 
The  next  thing  to  be  considered  was 
the  removal  to  another  house ;  and  now 
came  the  question  of  means.    This  wa 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had 
had  to  face  that  vulgar  difficulty.    He 
own  and   her   husband's   money  hac 
been  embarked  in   their  concessions 
The  forced  sale  of  their  property  hac 
been  disadvantageous ;  and  the  capita 
they  remained  possessed  of  supplied 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


m 


very  limited  income.  On  the  other 
hand,  airy  and  comfortable  apartments 
in  Paris  were  expensive,  and  so  would 
be  Dr.  Lenoir's  attendance. 

For  the  first  time,  Madame  d'Auban 
felt  to  care  for  riches.  For  the  first 
time  she  became  acquainted  with  the 
sting  of  poverty.  She  looked  at  her 
husband,  remembered  the  physician's 
words,  and  mentally  resolved  that,  with 
God's  blessing,  no  care,  no  anxiety, 
should  impede  his  recovery — that  she 
alone  would  bear  the  burden  of  solici- 
tude. In  a  playful  manner,  with  gen- 
tleness and  tact,  she  told  him  what  the 
doctor  had  said,  and  demanded,  in  a 
smiling  but  urgent  manner,  the  entire 
control  and  management  of  their  ex- 
penses. 

"  My  dear  heart,"  he  said,  fondly 
kissing  her  hand,  "  what  do  you  know 
of  business?  How  can  you  manage 
the  affairs  of  a  poor  gentilhomme  ? " 

"  Better,  perhaps,  than  you  imagine, 
M.  d'Auban.  Nay,  for  once,"  she  said, 
with  a  graceful  dignity  which  became 
her  well,  "I  will  assert  a  woman's,  a 
princess's,  right  to  have  her  own  way. 
Leave  every  thing  to  me,  dearest  Henri. 
I  will  it  as  a  wife ;  I  claim  it,  too." 

"  By  your  divine  right  to  rule  over 
the  heart  and  will  of  your  husband,  I 
suppose.  But,  my  beloved  one,  I  can- 
not suffer  that  dear  head,  which  ought 
to  have  worn  a  crown,  to  ache  over 
accounts." 

She  laid  her  finger  on  his  lips,  and, 
by  loving  words  and  caresses,  put  an 
end  to  his  remonstrances. 

Two  days  afterwards  a  cheerful,  pretty 
apartment  in  the  quartier  du  Louvre 
was  engaged ;  the  invalid's  couch  placed 
near  a  window  commanding  a  view  of 
the  Seine,  the  Isle  de  Paris,  and  the  old 
towers  of  Notre  Dame.  Books  lent  by 
various  friends  were  laid  on  the  table 
near  him;  and  every  morning  Mina 
brought  in  bright-coloured  flowers  to 
make  the  room  look  gay.  She  bought 


them  at  the  March6  aux  Fleure,  as  she 
walked  home  from  an  early  mass.  M. 
Lenoir  came  every  day ;  his  conversation 
entertained  his  patient,  whilst  his  reme- 
dies improved  his  health.  Old  friends 
now  and  then  called  of  an  evening; 
and  all  who  came  into  that  little  sanc- 
tuary of  peace  and  love  were  charmed 
with  Madame  d'Auban.  A  good-na- 
tured curiosity  was  felt  about  her.  Every 
one  wondered  that  so  refined  and  agree- 
able a  person  had  been  met  with  in  a 
remote  colony.  Full  of  intelligence, 
and  of  the  best  sort  of  cleverness  for  a 
woman — that  of  appreciating  the  talents 
and  wit  of  others — she  knew  how  to 
promote  conversation,  without  joining 
very  much  in  it  herself.  Her  very 
speaking  eyes  answered,  questioned, 
applauded,  or  remonstrated ;  and  gave 
continual  evidence  of  her  interest  in 
what  others  were  saying.  People  were 
often  astonished  to  find  that  a  person 
who  spoke  so  little  could  be  such  a 
pleasant  member  of  society.  They  little 
knew  how  hard  it  was^  at  times  to  keep 
the  appearance  of  cheerfulness — how 
anxiously  she  was  listening  for  any  word 
which  might  refer  to  Russia!  seldom 
daring  to  ask  a  direct  question,  and 
never  looking  into  a  newspaper  without 
a  beating  heart. 

She  would  sometimes  mention  her 
son  to  her  husband,  in  a  casual  manner 
and  without  any  appearance  of  emotion, 
that  he  might  not  think  she  was  pining 
for  the  moment  when  he  could  accom- 
pany her  to  St.  Petersburgh — a  scheme 
long  cherished — and  which  she  was 
more  bent  upon  than  ever,  since  she 
had  heard  of  the  young  monarch's 
emancipation.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  now  might  find  means  of  approach- 
ing him — of  telling  him,  and  no  one 
else,  the  secret  of  her  lift — of  whisper- 
ing words  of  counsel  and  warning,  even 
as  if  a  departed  mother  had  risen  from 
her  grave  to  haunt  him  with  her  love. 
Dreams  they  were,  wild  hopeless  dreams. 


172 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


perhaps,  but  to  her  they  did  not  seem 
so.  And  the  while  she  had  made  the 
sacrifice  of  the  only  means  she  had  of 
performing  this  journey.  The  only  val- 
uable possession  she  had  retained  was 
the  locket,  with  the  czar's  picture  set 
in  diamonds ;  those  diamonds  she  had 
always  intended  to  sell  for  this  purpose, 
but  she  had  parted  with  them  now. 
The  sum  thus  obtained  had  been  part- 
ly employed  in  meeting  the  expenses 
of  her  husband's  illness,  and  the 
rest  she  retained  for  any  future  emer- 
gency of  the  same  kind.  "When  he 
had  asked  her  how  she  was  able 
to  manage  so  well  with  such  limited 
resources,-  she  had  answered  that 
she  had  disposed  of  trifles  she  had 
no  use  for.  It  never  occurred  to 
him  that  she  had  parted  with  those 
diamonds. 
Now  and  then  news  accidentally 


reached  her  of  the  land  where  her  son 
reigned.  Since  the  death  of  the  Coun- 
tess of  Kouigsmark  she  had  no  chance 
of  direct  information;  but  some  one 
said  one  day  that  the  Empress  Eudoxia 
had  been  recalled  to  court  by  her  grand- 
son ;  and  another  time  she  read  in  the 
"  Mercure  de  France  "  that  the  Princess 
Mentzchikoff  had  died  of  a  broken 
heart,  on  her  way  to  Siberia;  she 
sighed,  for  this  poor  woman  had  been 
kind  to  her  once.  And  when  she 
heard  of  her  son's  approaching  nuptials 
with  the  Princess  Dolgorouki,  she 
breathed  a  fervent  prayer  that  his 
marriage  might  be  more  blest  than 
hers  with  his  father.  And  the  days 
went  by,  apparently  like  one  another, 
though  so  full  to  her  of  hope,  fear,  and 
agitations,  and  at  last  there  came  one 
which  had  a  great  influence  over  her 
future  fate. 


CHAPTEK    Y. 


Qui  survient  ?    Dame  belle  et  fiere 
Son  carrosse  au  galop  conduit, 

Jette  a  1'autre  un  not  de  poussiere 
Et  1'accrochant  fait  rire  et  fait. 

Beranger. 

For  I  saw  her,  as  I  thought,  dead, 

And  have  in  vain  said 

Many  a  prayer  upon  her  grave. 

ShaJcspeare. 


SOME  months  after  their  change  of 
abode,  in  the  afternoon  of  a  day  warm 
as  early  spring  days  are  wont  to  be  in 
Paris,  Madame  d'Auban  was  walking 
with  her  daughter  in  the  Tuileries 
gardens.  The  horse-chestnut  trees  of 
the  central  alley  were  putting  forth 
their  tender  leaves,  and  the  orange  trees 
were  lining  the  terrace  which  overlooks 
the  Seine.  The  sun  was  shining  full  on 


the  windows  of  the  palace,  the  whole 
facade  was  blazing  with  light.  What 
tragedies  have  been  enacted  since  that 
time  in  the  ancient  fortress  of  the  French 
kings,  in  sight  of  the  green  bowers — the 
fountains  and  flowers  of  those  beautiful 
gardens  !  "What  lives  and  what  deaths, 
what  crimes  and  what  sorrows,  have 
stamped  bitter  memories  on  their  match- 
less loveliness !  And  still  through  every 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


173 


change  of  time  and  of  doom,  the  horse- 
chestnuts  put  out  their  spiral  blossoms 
and  drop  their  shining  fruit ;  and  lovers 
•whisper,  and  children  play,  and  politi- 
cians talk,  and  men  laugh  and  scheme 
in  their  shade,  whether  over  the  time- 
honoured  dome  of  the  old  palace  floats 
the  spotless  fleur-de-lis  or  the  glorious 
tri-color. 

Many  a  graceful  picture  of  Boch6  or 
Vanloo  might  give  an  idea  of  the  aspect 
of  the  Tuileries  gardens  on  the  day  we 
are  speaking  of.  Groups  of  fashionable 
loungers  were  sauntering  up  and  down ; 
the  effect  produced  by  their  variegated 
dresses,  their  painted  fans,  their  col- 
oured parasols,  and  the  gorgeous  liv- 
eries of  their  servants,  somewhat  re- 
sembled that  of  the  beds  in  the  par- 
terre, where  tulips  and  sequinettes, 
anemones,  crocuses  and  jonquils,  were 
displaying  their  various  hues  in  bright 
confusion.  The  reader  of  the  foregoing 
pages  may,  perhaps,  also  picture  to  him- 
self the  mother  and  child,  who  hastily 
withdrawing  themselves  from  the  more 
fashionable  part  of  the  garden,  seated 
themselves  on  a  bench  in  the  recess 
formed  by  the  walls  of  the  orangery. 
There  was  certainly  something  very  dif- 
ferent in  their  appearance  from  that  of 
other  people.  They  were  not  dressed  in 
the  height  of  the  fashion.  In  dress  and 
in  manner  there  was  a  distinguished 
simplicity,  a  careless  but  graceful  negli- 
gence of  effect,  which  would  have  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  a  careful  ob- 
server, but  passed  unobserved  in  a 
crowd.  Madame  d'Auban's  pale  blue 
eyes  were  as  soft  and  lovely  as  ever, 
and  her  features  were  still  very  beauti- 
ful; but  during  the  last  few  months 
she  had  grown  to  look  much  older ;  a 
few  gray  hairs  began  to  show  them- 
selves in  her  golden  tresses.  But  as  to 
Mina,  Wilhelmina  as  she  was  now 
oftener  called,  there  was  no  doubt  as  to 
'  her  beauty.  Nobody  could  have  seen 
and  not  been  struck  by  it.  If  she  had 


stood  in  the  midst  of  the  fine  ladies  of 
the  central  alley,  and  challenged  their 
notice,  they  might,  indeed,  have  lifted 
up  their  eyebrows  with  a  supercilious 
stare,  and  fluttering  their  fans  declared, 
with  affected  indifference,  that  the  lit- 
tle Creole  was  tolerable  enough ;  but  in 
their  secret  hearts  each  would  have 
hoped  that  the  eyes  she  herself  wished 
to  attract  might  never  rest  on  the,  face 
of  this  young  stranger.  Though  Mina 
was  only  in  her  thirteenth  year,  she 
looked  fifteen  or  sixteen;  and  her 
beauty  was  that  of  early  girlhood 
rather  than  of  childhood.  The  mind 
which  spoke  in  her  countenance  was 
matured,  also,  beyond  her  age.  The 
life  she  had  led  in  her  earlier  years  had 
strengthened  and  developed  her  frame, 
and  the  climate  of  Louisiana  had  pre- 
maturely hastened  her  growth.  She 
was  not  as  strong  now  as  in  her  native 
Illinois;  her  complexion  was  more 
delicate,  and  there  was  a  darker  shade 
under  her  eyes  than  that  of  the  black 
eyelashes  which  fringed  them.  But 
many  of  the  ladies  of  the  court  would 
have  given  the  most  costly  pearl  in 
their  necklace,  or  the  brightest  stone 
in  their  coronals,  for  her  dark  blue 
and  most  expressive  eyes — for  her 
swanlike  neck,  or  her  features,  chis- 
elled like  the  fairest  gem  of  Grecian 
art. 

"  I  think  papa  is  getting  a  great  deal 
better  now,  dearest  mother,"  Mina  said, 
as  she  unfolded  a  piece  of  embroidery, 
on  which  her  slender  fingers  were  soon 
busily  employed. 

"  He  is,  indeed,  much  better.  M.  Le- 
noir's  treatment  has  perfectly  succeeded, 
and  now  he  is  of  opinion  that  change 
of  air  will  greatly  contribute  to  his 
complete  recovery." 

"  Oh,  how  delightful  1  Then  we  shall 
leave  Paris.  Where  shall  wo  go  ? " 

"  My  dear  child,  we  do  not  mean  to 
take  you  with  us.  Madame  d'Orgc  v  i  1 1  u 
has  kindly  invited  you  to  spend  the 


174 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


time  of  our  absence  with  her  daugh- 
ters." 

Mina  frowned,  and,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  did  not  answer. 

"  You  have  many  things  to  learn,  my 
child,  and  you  may  never  have  such  an 
opportunity  again.  I  would  not  will- 
ingly cut  short  the  time  of  your  resi- 
dence in  Paris.  The  lessons  you  are 
taking  now,  from  first-rate  masters,  are 
of  the  greatest  advantage." 

Mina  sighed.  "  Could  I  not  go  to 
school  in  some  convent  ? " 

"Do  you  dislike  Mesdemoiselles 
d'Orgeville?" 

"  I  like  Julie  pretty  well,  and  Oriane 
very  much  ;  but  I  cannot — indeed, 
mamma,  I  cannot — feel  happy  with 
them,  as  I  used  to  do  with  Therese, 
Rose,  and  Agnes." 

There  was  a  slight  tone  of  irritation 
in  Madame  d'Auban's  manner  as  she 
answered,  "That  part  of  your  life  is 
past,  Mina ;  it  is  of  no  use  to  be  always 
dwelling  upon  it,  and  nursing  vain  re- 
grets. You  are  French,  and  it  is  not 
your  destiny,  my  child,  to  live  with 
Indians." 

"  I  cannot  feel  French,  mother  !  I 
cannot  think  or  speak  as  they  do.  The 
girls  here  do  not  understand  me.  They 
do  not  care  for  the  sky,  or  the  trees,  or 
the  sunset  clouds.  Ontara  and  I  used 
to  talk  of  what  the  rivers  whisper  as 
they  run  by,  and  of  the  voices  in  the 
pine-trees.  We  knew  what  every  flow- 
er said.  I  showed  him  one  day  a  pas- 
sion flower,  and  I  told  him  that  it  was 
the  flower  of  the  Christians'  prayer; 
that  the  cross  and  the  crown  of  thorns, 
the  spear  and  the  nails,  were  in  its  bo- 
som, and  that  that  was  why  I  loved  it 
so  much ;  and  he  pointed  to  a  sun-flow- 
er, and  said,  *  This  is  the  flower  of  the 
Natches'  prayer.  It  worships  the  sun, 
as  we  do.  Every  day  it  turns  to  him 
as  he  sets  the  same  look  which  it  turn- 
ed to  him  when  he  rose.' 

"  But,  my  Mina,  Ontara  is  a  heathen. 


How  could  you  have  felt  so  much  sym- 
pathy with  one  who  does  not  believe 
in  Jesus  Christ  ? " 

Mina  mused  for  a  moment.  She  was 
putting  to  herself  the  same  question. 
"Mother,  Ontara  will  be  a  Christian 
one  day.  He  promised  me  never  to 
part  with  his  crucifix,  and  to  say  every 
day  a  prayer  I  taught  him.  Mother, 
Ontara  will  love  our  Lord  one  day ;  he 
loves  the  Great  Spirit  now  much  more 
than  many  of  the  French  Christians 
do." 

"Do  not  say  'the  Great  Spirit,' 
Mina.  You  must  leave  off  talking  like 
the  Indians." 

"I  will  say  'the  Good  God,'  said 
Mina,  gently.  "  But,  mother,  some  of 
the  people  here  speak  of  the  Supreme 
Being.  Are  they  heathens  ?  " 

"  Not  much  better  than  heathens,  I 
am  afraid/'  said  Madame  d'Auban 
with  a  sigh.  She  looked  anxiously  at 
her  daughter.  A  fear  was  perhaps 
crossing  her  mind  lest  her  sweet  wild- 
flower  should  lose  its  fragrance  in  the 
hothouse  of  a  Parisian  schoolroom. 

"  Where  are  you  and  my  father  go- 
ing ?  "  asked  Mina,  after  a  pause. 

"  To  Brittany  ;  he  wishes  to  see  his 
native  place  again  before  leaving 
France,  perhaps  for  ever." 

Madame  d'Auban  did  not  add  that 
this  was  to  be  but  the  first  step  of  a 
long  journey,  the  accomplishment  of 
which  was  her  long-cherished  hope. 

"  Mother,  where  is  your  native  place  ? " 
This  was  timidly  said ;  Mina  was  con- 
scious that  there  was  something  mys- 
terious in  her  mother's  fate.  Many 
little  circumstances  had  led  her  to 
suspect  it  besides  the  prayers  they 
daily  said  in  secret  for  her  unknown 
brother.  She  had  never  ventured 
before  to  put  a  direct  question  to 
her  on  the  subject.  There  was  a  trou- 
bled look  in  her  mother's  face  as  she 
answered — 

"  Your  fate  and  mine,  my  daughter, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


175 


may  be  similar,  I  think,  in  one  respect. 
Neither  of  us  will  probably  ever  visit 
again  the  place  of  our  birth :  but  you 
may  speak  of  yours ;  I  can  never  men- 
tion mine." 

Mina  seized  her  mother's  hand.  "  I 
am  so  sorry  1 "  she  said,  tenderly  kissing 
it.  "It  is  so  sad  never  to  speak  of 
what  we  love !  " 

A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  occur 
to  Madame  d'Auban.  "Mina,"  she 
said,  "  if  in  after  years,  perhaps  when  I 
am  dead,  it  should  ever  come  into  your 
mind  that,  where  so  much  concealment 
was  necessary,  there  may  have  been 
guilt,  remember  what  I  now  say  to 
you.  Never  dream  for  a  moment,  my 
child,  that  there  was  aught  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  your  mother's  life  ;  keep 
in  mind  this  solemn  assurance,  given 
at  the  eve  of  our  first  separation.  You 
cannot  understand  its  full  meaning  now, 
but  you  will  hereafter.  Your  mother's 
history  is  an  extraordinary  one,  but  no 
disgrace  is  attached  to  it.  These  words 
must  remain  buried  in  your  heart,  my 
daughter.  Question  me  not,  nor  others, 
on  this  subject ;  we  will  not  revert  to  it 
again." 

Mina  again  kissed  her  mother,  and 
then  said,  "Is  there  the  least  chance, 
mamma,  that  the  appointment  papa 
hopes  to  obtain  will  be  in  the  New 
France?" 

"  Not  the  least  chance  of  it — banish 
all  such  hope  from  your  mind,  Mina. 
If  a  post  was  offered  him  on  the  con- 
tinent of  America,  he  would  decline  it. 
He  does  not  wish,  and  I  would  not  for 
the  world  that  he  returned  to  a  country 
wlicre  he  has  suffered  so  much.  The 
effects  of  that  terrible  time  are  only 
now  disappearing.  I  always  observed 
at  New  Orleans  that  the  sight  of  an  In- 
dian made  him  shudder." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Mina's  cheeks 
and  suffused  her  temples;  her  heart 
beat  with  violence.  "  And  yet  Ontara 
saved  his  life  and  mine,  and  Pearl  Feath- 


er died  for  us!"  she  passionately  ex- 
claimed ;  and,  rushing  forward  a  little 
way  beyond  the  bench,  she  stood  still, 
battling  down  the  vehement  feelings 
her  mother's  words  had  awakened.  In 
a  few  instants  she  returned,  and,  throw- 
ing her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck, 
whispered,  "Dearest,  dearest  papa,  I 
know  how  much  he  suffered,  and  he  is 
so  good ;  but,  oh,  mother,  some  of  my 
Indian  brothers  are  good  too  1 " 

Just  as  the  young  girl  was  giving 
way  to  this  burst  of  feeling,  the  quiet 
corner  where  her  mother  and  herself 
were  sitting  was  invaded  by  a  number 
of  smartly-dressed  persons,  who  formed 
themselves  in  a  group  just  opposite  to 
them.  They  were  discussing  with  great 
eagerness  something  that  was  going  on 
or  about  to  take  place,  and  which  evi- 
dently excited  interest  and  amusement. 
In  the  centre  of  this  assemblage  stood 
a  lady  of  unusual  height,  whose  features 
were  strikingly  handsome.  She  was 
dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion ;  spoke 
in  a  loud,  ringing,  but  not  unharmo- 
nious  voice,  and  seemed  to  command 
the  attention  and  admiration  of  the 
bystanders.  The  expression  of  her 
countenance  varied  every  moment; 
sometimes  wild  merriment  gleamed  in 
her  black  eyes,  and  arch,  mischievous 
smiles  played  on  her  lips,  or  a  look  of 
defiant  resolution  compressed  them 
tightly  together.  At  moments,  a  sweet 
and  almost  melancholy  shade  of  thought 
overcast  that  sparkling  brilliancy ;  she 
talked  a  great  deal,  and  gesticulated 
incessantly. 

"  Does  the  great  trial  of  strength 
really  come  off  to-day  ? "  asked  one  of 
the  gentlemen  who  crowded  round  her. 
"You  have  made  a  bold  challenge. 
Mademoiselle,  and  I  fear  your  backers 
will  have  to  pay  the  costs." 

"  Bah ! "  she  said,  laughing.  "  Even 
defeat  in  this  case  will  be  honourable. 
And  so  much  the  worse  for  those  who 
have  been  rash  enough  to  stake  their 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


fortunes  on  the  strength  of  my  wrist ! 
A  slender  one,  gentlemen,"  she  added, 
showing  a  well-shaped  and  very  white 
hand. 

"Does  your  antagonist  furnish  the 
plate?" 

"  Of  course  he  does." 

"  My  dear,"  said  one  of  the  ladies, 
"  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  conquered. 
I  know  you  bend  five-franc  pieces  like 
wafers,  but  a  silver  plate !  You  have 
never  yet  attempted  that." 

"  I  could  not  afford  i.t."  There  was 
a  general  burst  of  laughter. 

"  Mademoiselle  grown  economical ! 
Wonders  will  never  cease ! " 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  the  lady,  and 
the  thoughtful,  mournful  look  came 
into  her  face,  but  in  a  second  she  was 
laughing  again  at  her  own  thoughts, 
apparently.  "I  could  amuse  you  all 
very  much,"  she  said,  "  by  relating  my 
adventures  since  we  last  met  here." 

"  It  has  been  reported  that  you  had 
left  Paris,  but  nobody  could  tell  where 
you  were  gone,"  said  one  of  the  gen- 
tlemen. 

"I  dare  say  not.  Well,  I  went  to 
the  dull  little  capital  of  a  foolish  little 
kingdom.  Guess  now  where  I  went." 

"  I  should  never  have  guessed,"  said 
another  gentleman,  "  that  Mademoiselle 
Gaultier  would  have  sought  dulness 
under  any  form.  There  is  no  affinity 
between  her  and  dulness." 

"  I  did  not  find  Stutgard  at  all  dull. 
On  the  contrary,  the  twenty-four  hours 
I  spent  there  were  exceedingly  lively." 

"  And  what  in  the  name  of  patience 
took  you  there,  my  dear  ? "  asked  the 
same  lady  who  had  spoken  before. 

"  Well,  if  you  wish  to  hear  the  story, 
here  it  is.  His  Royal  Highness  of  Wur- 
temburg  and  I  were  great  friends  all 
last  winter.  He  is,  as  you  know,  a  pa- 
tron of  the  stage — writes  plays  himself — 
bad  ones — but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  He  had  often  invited  me  to  visit 
his  duchy ;  so  last  week,  as  the  weather 


was  fine,  and  Paris  not  particularly 
amusing,  I  took  it  into  my  head  to  go. 
I  travelled  day  and  night,  with  only 
one  servant.  Oh,  dear,  what  beautiful 
nights  they  were!  I  wonder  if  you 
Parisians  have  ever  thought  of  looking 
at  the  stars  ?  I  assure  you  it  is  very 
worth  while.  At  the  end  of  four  days 
I  arrived  at  the  Konig's  Hof,  and  wrote 
to  my  royal  friend  to  announce  my  ar- 
rival. He  had  the  condescension  to 
call  upon  me  on  the  same  day,  and  was 
all  bows  and  smiles  and  compliments ; 
but  when  I  spoke  of  paying  him  my 
respects  at  the  palace  on  the  morrow,  I 
noticed  a  visible  embarrassment  on  the 
Grand-ducal  countenance.  He  said 
there  was  no  occasion  to  fatigue  myself 
so  soon  after  my  journey — ah!  ah!  do 
I  look  like  a  person  easily  fatigued  ? — 
and  that  he  would  send  his  chamberlain 
the  next  day  to  inquire  after  my  health. 
And  the  chamberlain  came,  and,  what 
was  -more  extraordinary,  the  chamber- 
lain told  the  truth !  It  appeared  that 
his  Royal  Highness,  good  soul,  had  be- 
trayed imprudent  marks  of  satisfaction 
on  hearing  of  my  arrival,  and  had  given 
orders  that  I  should  be  forthwith  in- 
vited to  dine  at  the  palace.  But  it  was 
not  to  be.  The  noble  and  high  and 
mighty  and  virtuous  Countess  d'Erns- 
thumer,  a  Wurtemburgian — Madame 
de  Maintenon — a  left-handed,  morgan- 
atic sort  of  divinity,  presiding  over  the 
decorum  and  morality  of  the  pompous 
little  court,  had  decreed  otherwise.  She 
raised  a  tremendous  outcry,  and  pro- 
tested against  such  an  honour  being 
paid  to  Mademoiselle  Gaultier,  pre- 
miere actrice  du  Theatre  Francais.  And 
the  veto  took  effect." 

"  Too  bad ! "  "  Too  insolent ! "  "  In- 
tolerable ! "  "  Impertinent ! "  exclaimed 
the  listeners,  in  different  keys. 

"What  did  you  say^to  that  wretched 
chamberlain  ? " 

"I  asked  if  the  excellent  countess 
enjoyed  good  health." 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


177 


"  Goqd  heavens  !  my  dear,"  exclaim- 
*ed  one  of  the  ladies,  "you  were  not 
I  going  to  poison  her  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  am  too  much  afraid  of  hell ; 
and  besides,  it  would  not  have  been 
\  half  such  fun  as  what  I  did  do." 

"  And  what  on  earth  was  that  ? " 
p  cried  the  audience. . 

"  Well,  I  took  a  drive  the  next  day." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  I  drove  myself,  of  course,  as  I  do 
here.  Mine  host  of  the  Konig's  Hof, 
whose  good  graces  I  had  won  by  florins 
and  civil  speeches,  lent  me  a  charming 
pair  of  unbroken  horses,  which  I  order- 
ed to  be  harnessed  to  a  light  phaeton, 
tt  had  rained  all  night,  and  the  ground 
was  delightfully  soft  and  muddy.  My 
Eriend  the  chamberlain  had  kindly  in- 
formed me  at  what  hour  I  might  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  the  beau  monde 
of  Stutgard  parading  up  and  down  the 
promenade.  Was  not  that  a  treat  for 
a  stranger  from  Paris?  The  Countess 
d'Ernsthumer,  he  said,  always  took  a 
drive  between  one  and  two  in  her  open 
carriage  and  four.  I  managed  my  wild 
steeds  to  perfection ;  we  raced  up  and 
down  the  alleys,  scattering  mud  in 
very  direction.  I  kept  them  pretty 
well  in  hand  till  we  came  in  sight  of 
the  morganatic  equipage.  'Tis  not  to 
be  described  how  frantic  they  then 
became — how  they  reared  and  plunged, 
and  ended  by  running  against  its  left 
wheel, and  sending  it  right  over  on  its 
side — gently  enough,  too  I  The  good 
German  horses  stood  stock-still,  and 
the  ladies  fell  one  upon  another  in  the 
mud,  like  so  many  pillows  in  silk  and 
muslin  cases." 

•  "Well  done!"  "Well done!"  "Bra- 
TO,  Madlle.  Gaultier ! "  re-echoed  in  the 
circle. 

"Ay,  but  mind  you,  nobody  cried 
'  bravo '  on  the  promenade  at  Stut- 
Igard  (and  the  Germans  can  work  them- 
selves up  into  a  fury  if  you  give  them 
time) ;  so  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  and 
12 


I  drove  like  the  wind  to  my  Konig's 
Hof,  where  a  post-chaise  and  four  was 
waiting  for  me.  We  flew  rather  than 
galloped  to  the  frontier.  The  postboys 
had  never  before  been  promised  so 
much  Trinkgeld.  Once  on  the  French 
side  of  the  river,  I  stood  up  in  the  car- 
riage, shook  my  glove  in  defiance,  and 
then  flung  it  into  the  Rhine.  In  four 
more  days  and  nights  I  travelled  back 
to  Paris,  the  only  place  fit  for  human 
beings  to  live  in." 

"  What  did  the  Grand  Duke  think  ? " 
somebody  said. 

"  Oh !  I  had  a  letter  this  morning 
describing  the  storm  in  a  puddle  which 
ensued.  I  was  to  have  been  thrown 
into  prison.  Ah !  ah !  The  journey 
back  was  delightful.  We  had  all  sorts 
of  adventures,  and  ran  a  thousand 
risks,  Constant  and  I.  We  were  nearly 
murdered  in  a  cut-throat-looking  inn." 

"  Have  you  never  known  what  it  is 
to  be  frightened,  Mademoiselle  Gaul- 
tier  ? "  a  lady  asked. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame,  I  am 
terribly  afraid  of  the  least  pain ;  the 
prick  of  a  needle  makes  me  faint,  and 
a  hard  bed  cry.  Mais  que  voulez- 
vous  ? — excitement  is  every  thing." 

Just  then  there  was  a  stir  amongst 
the  bystanders.  A  man  of  high  stature 
and  noble  appearance  had  joined  the 
assemblage,  and  was  standing  opposite 
Mademoiselle  Gaultier,  with  his  back 
to  Madame  d'Auban  and  her  daughter. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  le  Comte  ! "  the  act- 
ress gaily  exclaimed,  "I  was  begin- 
ning to  think  you  had  forgotten  my 
challenge." 

The  person  she  thus  addressed  an- 
swered, with  a  smile :  "  You  are  not 
content  with  one  defeat,  fair  lady ;  you 
must  needs  seek  another.  So  be  it 
then.  On  the  last  occasion  when  we 
tried  the  strength  of  our  wrists,  you 
forfeited  to  me  the  rose  which  Zaire 
had  worn  on  the  preceding  evening. 
I  am  grown  more  ambitious  now,  and 


178 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


if  I  win  I  shall  ask  for  the  fellow  of  the 
glove  which  the  free  German  Rhine  is 
carrying  to  the  sea." 

"  Ah  !  you  have  heard  of  my  adven- 
tures, Monsieur  le  Comte  ?  Are  you 
not  afraid  of  measuring  your  strength 
with  so  ntalignant  an  enemy  ? " 

"Very  much  afraid,"  answered  the 
stranger,  with  a  smile.  "  But  faint 
heart  never  won  or  vanquished  fair 
lady ;  so  I  must  needs  keep  up  my 
courage  by  all  the  inducements  in  my 
power.  Here  are  two  silver  plates : 
bent  or  unbent,  they  remain  yours  after 
the  trial ;  and  if  I  win,  then  I  claim 
the  champion's  glove." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Gaultier.  "  Give  me  a  plate." 

It  was  handed  to  her.  She  took  it 
up  with  a  half-confident,  half-doubtful 
look,  colouring  with  eagerness,  and 
smiling  as  if  anticipating  a  triumph. 
Then  laying  it  down  again,  she  began 
by  bending  with  her  fingers,  slender 
and  thin,  but  as  strong  as  steel,  a  five- 
franc  piece,  which  she  rolled  as  if  it 
had  been  a  wafer..  Everybody  ap- 
plauded. 

"  Now  for  the  great  attempt ! "  she 
said ;  and  the  eyes  of  all  present  were 
fixed  upon  her  as  she  again  took  up  the 
silver  plate. 

Madame  d'Auban  and  Mina  were 
watching  her  like  the  rest.  There  was 
something  irresistibly  attractive  in  the 
good-humoured  wilfulness  of  her  hand- 
some face. 

"Nobody  has  ever  conquered  me," 
she  said,  overlooking,  with  feminine  in- 
consistency, her  recent  defeat. 

When  a  woman  wills  something,  and 
that  something  is  a  triumph  of  some 
kind,  how  resolved  she  is  upon  it ! 
The  colour  deepened  visibly  under  the 
rouge  on  her  cheeks.  She  bent  the 
whole  strength  of  her  fingers,  of  her 
arm,  of  her  whole  frame  on  the  plate, 
which  would  not  yield  to  that  desper- 
ate pressure.  Her  lips  were  firmly  and 


tightly  compressed;  the  veins  in  her 
forehead  swelled.  She  turned  pale 
with  the  prolonged  effort.  "Aliens! 
I  am  beat,"  she  cried,  vexed  and  yet 
laughing.  "I  don't  believe  you  can 
bend  it,  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

The  stranger  bowed,  took  it  up,  and 
with  a  scarcely  perceptible  effort  rolled 
it  up  like  a  piece  of  parchment. 

"  Bravo  ! "  exclaimed  the  lady,  with 
frank  good  humour,  and  pulling  off  her 
glove  she  presented  it  to  her  antagonist 
with  a  graceful  curtsey.  "  To  have  en- 
tered the  lists  with  such  an  adversary 
is  in  itself  an  honour,  and  to  be  de- 
feated by  him  more  glorious  than  to 
conquer  a  meaner  foe.  And  yet,"  she 
added,  laughing,  "  it  is  pitiful  not  to 
be  able  any  more  to  boast  that  what 
anybody  else  has  done  one  can  also 
do." 

Her  cortege  accompanied  her  as  she 
moved  away,  and  no  one  remained  in 
that  part  of  the  garden  but  Madame 
d'Auban  and  Mina  and  Madlle.  Gaul- 
tier's  antagonist,  who  suddenly  turned 
round  and  sat  down  at  the  farthest  end 
of  the  bench  where  they  were  seated. 
He  took  out  a  parcel  of  letters  from  his 
pocket  and  began  to  read  them,  with- 
out paying  any  attention  to  his  neigh- 
bours. Mina  had  been  much  amused 
with  the  scene  she  had  witnessed. 

"  Is  not  that  gentleman  wonderfully 
strong,  mamma  ?"  she  said  in  French. 

"  Speak  German,"  whispered  her 
mother,  glancing  at  the  stranger. 

"  The  lady  is  also  very  strong,"  Mina 
said  in  that  language,  "  and  she  is  very 
handsome  too.  Do  you  think  she  looks 
good,  mamma  ? " 

The  gentleman  at  the  end  of  the 
bench  evidently  understood  German, 
for  he  turned  round,  amused  at  Mina's 
question,  and  looked  at  her  with  curi- 
osity first  and  then  with  unmistakable 
admiration.  But  he  soon  resumed  his 
reading. 

"  I  think  her  manners  are  too  bold, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


170 


but  there  is  something  prepossessing  in 
her  countenance,"  was  Madame  d'Au- 
ban's  answer  to  her  daughter's  remark. 

"  Yes,  mamma;  I  see  what  you  mean 
about  her  being  too  bold,  but  I  am  glad 
you  like  her  face.  I  do." 

"  She  is  an  actress — not  a  person  in 
society." 

"  An  actress !  I  wonder  if  she  acts 
as  well  as  Pouponne?" 

"  Who  is  Pouponne,  my  dear  ? " 

"  Madame  de  Simiane's  grand-daugh- 
ter, mamma.  She  came  tUe  other  day 
to  see  Julie  and  Oriane,  and  she  told 
us  that  at  her  school  they  were  going 
to  act  Athalie,  and  that  she  was  going 
to  be  the  Queen.  M.  d'Hericourt  had 
been  teaching  her  when  to  stand  and 
to  sit  down,  and  to  put  out  her  hand, 
i  and  to  look  up  to  heaven.  She  repeated 
I  to  us  her  part;  you  can't  think  how 
i  well  she  did  it,  mamma;  especially 
I  that  bit  when  Athalie  says : — 

1  Ou  scrais-je  aujourd'hui  si  domptant  ma  faiblcsse 
Je  n'eusse  d'une  mere  etouffo  la  tendresse  ?  " 

"  Hush,  darling ! "  said  her  mother, 

id  an  expression  of  pain  passed  over 
Iher  face. 

Mina  perceived  it,  and,  hastening  to 
[change  the  subject,  exclaimed,  "I  wish 
KI  was  a  queen !  Not  a  make-believe  one, 
pbut  a  queen  in  good  earnest." 

"  What  can  make  you  wish  for  such 

fate,  Mina?" 

"  I  would  then  fit  out  an  immense 
ahip  and  return  to  America,  and  on  the 
of  the  hill  where  Eagle-eye  used  to 
me  I  would  build  a  cathedral  as 
as  Notre  Dame,  which  would  be 

le  wonder  of  the  New  World." 

Do  you  fancy  that  kings  and  queens 
lure  free  agents,  my  child ;  or,  that  they 
[are  happier  than  other  people  ? " 

"Everybody  says— happy  as  a  king 
lor  a  queen.  Julie  says,  she  should  be 
las  happy  as  a  queen  if  she  married 
[somebody  about  the  Court,  and  was 

ivited  to  Marly." 

"  Those  who  use  that  form  of  speech 


have  never  known  what  anguish  often 
wrings  the  hearts  of  those  they  foolishly 
envy." 

Mina  laid  her  head  in  a  caressing 
manner  against  her  mother's  shoulder, 
and  looking  up  into  her  face  said,  "  But 
how  do  you  know  what  they  suffer, 
sweetest  mother?  You  have  never 
lived  in  a  palace." 

Madame  d'Auban  pushed  back  the 
curls  from  her  daughter's  forehead,  and, 
pressing  her  lips  upon  it,  murmured, 
"  Take  my  word  for  it,  Mina,  there  is 
sometimes  no  slavery  more  galling  than 
that  of  royalty,  and  no  more  melancholy 
prison  than  a  palace.  The  hardest  of 
all  chains  are  often  invisible ;  and  many 
a  heart  breaks  in  silence  on  or  near  a 
throne." 

These  last  words,  uttered  with  some 
emotion,  and  in  a  rather  louder  voice 
than  that  in  which  Madame  d'Auban 
had  hitherto  spoken,  caused  the  stran- 
ger, who  had  now  finished  reading  his 
letters,  to  bend  forward  and  endeavour 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face;  but, 
not  succeeding,  he  collected  his  papers 
and  walked  away.  As  he  passed  before 
Madame  d'Auban  he  looked  hard  at 
her,  and  in  a  few  minutes  turned  back 
again  and  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  upon 
her.  She  remarked  it,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  also  caught  sight  of  his  features, 
and  felt  at  once  that  they  were  not  un- 
known to  her. 

"  Put  up  your  work,  darling,"  she 
hurriedly  said.  "  It  is  time  to  go." 

44  Qh,  do  let  us  stay  a  little  longer, 
dearest  mamma  1  It  is  so  pleasant  now 
under  the  trees." 

«  No,  no ;  make  haste,  Mina." 

For  the  third  time  the  stranger  turned 
back,  and  this  time  he  stopped  opposite 
to  them.  Madame  d'Auban's  eyes  met 
his  eager  glance,  and  every  trace  of 
colour  vanished  from  her  check.  She 
remained  motionless  and  cold  as  any 
of  the  stone  statues  about  her.  The 
stranger  pronounced  a  single  word, 


180 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"Madame!"  There  was  wonder,  re- 
spect, and  a  tacit  inquiry  in  the  tone 
with  which  it  was  uttered.  In  the  ears 
of  her  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  it 
sounded  like  a  voice  from  another  world ; 
for  that  stranger  and  herself  had  been 
friends  in  early  youth — almost  like  a 
brother  had  that  man  been  to  her ;  and 
at  sight  of  him  thoughts  of  her  family, 
and  home,  and  old  associations  were 
rushing  upon  her  with  indescribable 
might. 

"  The  Comte  de  Saxe,"  she  murmured. 
The  name  died  away  on  her  lips,  but 
she  could  not  repress  the  choking  and 
blinding  tears  which  would  flow  in 
spite  of  all  her  efforts. 

"  Dear  companion  of  my  childhood," 
the  Count  began,  in  a  low  and  rapid 
tone — "  friend  of  my  earlier  days,  do 
my  senses  beguile  me,  or  do  I,  indeed, 
behold  you  again  ?  Oh,  madame,  what 
does  this  mean  ?  What  miracle  has 
raised  you  from  an  untimely  grave? 
For  God's  sake,  explain  to  me  this 
mystery ! " 

Madame  d'Auban  made  a  strong  ef- 
fort to  rise,  and  leaning  on  Mina  she 
turned  away.  "  It  is  a  mistake,"  she 
faintly  said,  and  tried  to  walk  on.  But 
the  Count  seized  her  hand  and  exclaim- 
ed— 

"It  is  your  voice,  as  well  as  your 
face!  It  is  yourself !  You  cannot  de- 
ceive me ! " 

"  Let  go  my  mother's  hand,"  cried 
Mina.  with  the  air  of  a  young  chieftain- 
ess.  "  You  make  her  weep.  Begone ! " 

Without  heeding  her,  the  Count  con- 
tinued— "Good God!  madame!  cannot 
you  trust  me  ?  Have  you  the  heart  to 
treat  me  as  a  stranger  ? " 

She  had  struggled  for  composure,  and 
partly  regained  it.  A  thousand  rapid 
thoughts  and  fears  had  passed  through 
her  mind.  In  those  days  of  irrespon- 
sible power  in  sovereigns,  and  with  the 
strong  abhorrence  of  mesalliances  in 
royal  families,  there  was  more  ground 


for  her  apprehensions  than  can  be  easily 
conceived  in  the  present  day.  In  a 
steadier  tone  she  said — "  This  is  some 
singular  misapprehension,  sir.  I  have 
been  ill,  and  was  overcome  by  the  sud- 
denness of  your  strange  address.  Some 
accidental  resemblance,  I  suppose — " 

"Resemblance!"  cried  the  Count, 
impatiently.  "  But  be  it  so,  madame, 
if  such  is  your  will.  My  respect  is  as 
unbounded  as  my  attachment  is  pro- 
found. Far  be  it  from  me  to  intrude 
upon  you.  Your  simplest  wish  is  as 
much  a  law  to  me  now  as  when  at  your 
father's—" 

"  Hush !  for  God's  sake  hush  ! "  The 
words  burst  from  Madame  d'Auban's 
lips,  as  she  glanced  at  Mina,  and,  before 
she  had  time  to  recall  them,  she  felt 
that  she  had  tacitly  acknowledged  what 
she  meant  to  hide.  A  crimson  hue 
overspread  her  face. 

"  Your  daughter  ?  "  said  the  Count 
de  Saxe,  glancing  admiringly  at  Mina, 
who  was  frowning  at  the  audacious 
stranger.  "  And  her  name  is —  ?  " 

"  Wilhelmina  d'Auban,"  cried  the 
young  girl ;  "  and  I  wish  some  of  my 
brave  Indians  were  here  to  drive  you 
away." 

"  Ah  !  madame,  we  have  both  mourn- 
ed," said  the  Count — "  both  wept  over 
the  loss  of  another  Wilhelmina." 

Madame  d'Auban  burst  into  tears. 

"  Do    sit    down    again,"    cried   the 
Count  de  Saxe;   and  she  did  so,  forj 
her  limbs  were  trembling,  so  that  she  i 
could  hardly  stand.     He  stood  for  a 
moment  •  gazing  upon  her  with  an  ex- 
pression in  which  anxiety,  curiosity, 
and    sympathy  were    all    combined.] 
Mina  looked  from  one  to  the   other 
with  a  perplexed  and  anxious  counte-j 
nance.     At  last,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feel-l 
ing,  he  said — "  I  know  not  whether  to 
go  or  to  stay.    I  scarcely  know  how  to 
address  you,  madame.  -  Would  to  God 
you  would  speak  to  me  one  word  only  1  ! 
Tell  me,  I  am  not  mad  ! " 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


181 


Madame  d'Auban  raised  her  tearful 
eyes,  and  looked  at  him  with  that  pe- 
culiar expression  which  had  made  the 
Princess  Charlotte  of  Wolfenbuttel  the 
object  of  his  boyish  worship,  and  she 
answered  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  She 
whom  you  think  you  see  is  indeed 
dead — dead  to  kindred,  to  friends,  to 
that  world  in  which  she  once  lived. 
Do  not  disturb  the  peace  of  her  grave. 
Forget  the  stranger  you  have  met  to- 
day." 

"Could  I  ever  think  of  you  as  a 
stranger  ? " 

"  Think  of  me  as  you  please  !  But, 
oh,  M.  de  Saxe,  be  kind,  be  generous, 
and  do  not  by  a  fatal  curiosity  ruin 
happiness  which  hangs  on  a  thread  ! " 

"  You  are  happy,  then  ? " 

Madame  d'Auban  glanced  at  her 
daughter,  and  bowed  her  head  in 
assent. 

"  Heaven  forbid  I  should  cause  you 
a  moment's  uneasiness!  I  will,  of 
course,  forbear  from  any  inquiries  that 
may  pain  you  or  endanger  your  peace ; 
but  may  I  not  come  and  see  you? 
Will  you  not  give  me  the  explanation 
of  what  an  hour  hence  will  seem  to  me 
an  incredible  dream  ? " 

"M.  de  Saxe,  if  you  will  give  me 
your  word  of  honour  that  you  will  be 
silent  as  the  grave,  ay,  as  the  grave  it- 


self, as  to  this  meeting,  I  will  write  in 
three  months'  time,  and  explain  to  you 
this  mystery.  I  may  then  have  a  fa- 
vour to  ask  of  you." 

"I  promise— I  swear,"  eagerly  cried 
the  Comte  de  Saxe ;  "  but  if  at  the  end 
of  three  months  I  do  not  hear  from  you, 
I  shall  think  it  my  duty  to  inform  the 
King,  my  master,  of  your  existence." 

"  In  three  months  ?  So  be  it.  But 
if  I  live,  you  will  hear  from  me  before 
that  time.  You  promise  that  you  will 
not  follow  me  now,  or  seek  to  discover 
my  abode  ? " 

"  I  promise,"  answered  the  Count. 
"  But  if  during  that  interval  you  should 
need  the  aid  of  a  strong  arm  and  a  de- 
voted heart,  think,  madame,  of  Maurice 
of  Saxony.  I  suppose  I  must  not  ask 
for  one  word  of  kind  farewell  ? " 

Madame  d'Auban  held  out  her  hand, 
which  he  kissed  with  profound  respect. 
"  Farewell,  and  Heaven  bless  you,  Mau- 
rice," she  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 

When  the  mother  and  daughter  had 
disappeared,  the  Comte  de  Saxe  stood 
some  time  in  the  same  place,  musing 
on  this  extraordinary  meeting  with  one 
whom  for  years  he  had  thought  of  as 
dead.-  "If  I  am  not  more  mad  than 
any  madman  in  Bicetre,"  he  inwardly 
exclaimed,  "  truth  is  stranger  than  the 
wildest  fiction." 


182 


TOO    STKANQE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


CHAPTEE     VI. 

If  I  could  see  him  it  were  well  with  me. 

Coleridge's  WalUnstein. 

There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Eich  music  filled  that  garden's  bowers ; 
Lamps  that  from  flowering  branches  hung, 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colour  flung ; 
And  bright  forms  glanced — a  fairy  show 
Under  the  blossoms  to  and  fro. 

But  one,  a  lone  one,  'midst  the  throng 
Seemed  reckless  all  of  dance  and  song ; 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mien, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been, 
Of  crested  brow  and  long  black  hair, 
A  stranger,  like  the  palm-tree,  there. 

Mrs.  ITemans. 

But  though  this  mayden  tender  were  of  age, 

Yet  in  the  brest  of  her  virginite 

Ther  was  enclosed  rype  and  sad  corrage. 


A  FEW  days  after  the  occurrence  re- 
lated in  the  last  chapter,  Madame  d' Au- 
ban  and  her  husband  left  Paris  for  Brit- 
tany. Hopes  had  been  held  out  to 
him  of  an  appointment  in  the  Isle  de 
Bourbon,  but  some  weeks  were  to 
elapse  before  he  could  receive  a  deci- 
sive answer.  In  the  mean  time  he 
wished  to  sell  a  small  property  he 
had  in  Brittany,  and  proposed  to  em- 
ploy the  fund  it  would  fetch  in  carry- 
ing out  his  wife's  project  of  a  journey 
to  St.  Petersburgh.  He  knew  it  to  be 
a  wild,  possibly  a  dangerous,  scheme, 
and  deemed  it  very  improbable  that 
the  results  would  be  satisfactory  to  her 
maternal  feelings;  but  he  had  prom- 
ised when  he  married  her  not  to  put 
any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  her  seeking 
to  see  her  son ;  and  on  the  eve  of  what 
would,  most  likely,  be  a  final  departure 
from  Europe,  he  felt  it  right  to  allow 
her  the  chance  of  looking  once  more 
on  her  boy's  face,  even  though  she 
might  not  gain  admittance  to  the 
young  sovereign's  presence  in  any  of 


Chaucer. 

the  thousand  ways  she  was  always  de- 
vising. Her  meeting  with  the  Comte 
de  Saxe  had  proved  that  she  was  not 
so  much  altered  in  appearance  as  she 
fancied,  but  it  would  be  easy  in  St. 
Petersburgh  to  put  on  such  a  disguise 
as  would  effectually  prevent  any  chance 
of  recognition;  and  on  some  public 
occasion,  at  all  events,  she  might  feast 
her  eyes  on  the  features  memory  so 
faintly  retraced  and  imagination  so 
often  pictured. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  morning  in 
May,  that  after  leaving  Mina,  not  with- 
out many  anxious  thoughts,  at  the 
Hotel  d'Orgeville,  they  drove  away 
from  Paris  in  a  diligence,  along  one 
of  those  old-fashioned  chaussees,  bor- 
dered on  both  sides  by  elms,  and  fields 
intersected  with  rows  of  apple  trees. 
White  fleecy  clouds  were  careering 
over  the  calm  bright  sky,  and  the  con- 
ducteur  whistled  the  tune  of  the  "  Bon 
roi  Dagobert,"  as,  amidst  clouds  of 
dust,  they  rolled  on  towards  the  north- 
ern coast.  On  the  evening  of  the  third 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


183 


day  they  reached  Colonel  d'Auban's 
native  place.  Once  again  he  looked 
on  the  well-known  coast,  its  rocky 
islets  and  overhanging  cliffs.  He  heard 
the  osprey's  cry,  the  sound  of  the  waves 
receding  on  the  stony  beach  of  Keir 
Anna,  and  the  bells  of  the  little  chapel 
built  by  the  sailors  in  honour  of  Mary, 
Star  of  the  Sea.  The  scent  of  the 
clover  fields,  mixing  with  the  briny 
smell  of  the  ocean,  came  floating  on 
the  breeze.  It  seemed  to  breathe  new 
life  into  his  frame ;  under  the  roof  of 
the  little  Breton  inn  for  the  first  time 
for  nearly  three  years  he  slept  without 
dreaming  of  Red  Indians  and  mur- 
dered women.  The  few  days  they 
spent  in  this  obscure  village  seemed 
to  do  him  all  and  even  more  than  the 
good  which  the  doctor  had  anticipated 
from  a  change  of  scene  and  air.  His 
wife  sat  by  his  side  on  the  sea  shore, 
or  wandered  with  him  through  the 
fragrant  lanes  around  the  old  manor 
house  where  he  was  born.  Spring  was 
in  its  full  beauty,  and  as  they  inhaled 
the  fresh  sea  breezes,  and  trod  on  the 
soft  herbage  of  the  perfumed  down,  a 
repose  stole  over  his  mind  and  a 
strength  returned  to  his  limbs,  such 
as  he  had  never  hoped  again  to  feel. 
For  both  of  them  it  was  a  blessed 
breathing-time.  They  felt  it  to  be  so, 
and  turned  back  with  many  a  wistful 
look  towards  the  little  village  on  the 
shore,  whilst  they  slowly  ascended,  in 
advance  of  the  diligence,  the  first  hill 
on  the  road  to  Havre,  beyond  which 
they  were  to  lose  sight  of  it. 

Havre,  with  its  crowded  streets,  its 
noisy  quays,  and  the  forests  of  masts  in 
its  busy  port,  formed  a  striking  con- 
trast to  the  peaceful  spot  they  had  just 
left.  On  their  way  to  the  hotel  which 
they  had  written  to  for  lodgings,  they 
stopped  at  an  office  to  inquire  about 
the  vessel  in  which  they  intended  to 
sail  for  St.  Petersburg!!.  It  was  ex- 
pected to  heave  anchor  in  two  days; 


and  d'Auban  said  he  would  return  on 
the  following  morning  to  make  final 
arrangements  about  their  berths.  At 
the  hotel  they  hoped  to  find  letters 
from  Paris,  and  were  not  disappoint- 
ed; on  the  table  of  the  little  parlour 
they  were  shown  into,  two  or  three  were 
lying. 

"  Oh,  there  is  one  from  our  Mina," 
cried  Madame  d'Auban,  her  eyes  spark- 
ling with  delight.  She  sat  down  and 
opened  it." 

"Read  to  me  what  that  darling 
writes,"  he  said,  with  a  bright  smile ; 
and  seating  himself  opposite  to  her, 
he  leant  his  head  on  his  hands  and 
listened. 

This  was  Mina's  letter  :— 

"  Dearest  Mamma  and  dearest  Papa, — 
I  am  so  happy  1  When  you  went  away, 
I  thought  I  should  not  have  a  moment's 
happiness  during  your  absence,  but  a 
great  joy  has  come  to  me  since,  which 
has  been  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  in  a 
dark  sky,  for  I  was  very  lonely,  and  felt 
very  miserable  in  this  great  Paris  with- 
out you.  My  heart  is  even  now  very 
sad  at  times,  but  I  no  longer  feel  lonely. 
My  brother  is  come.  My  dear  brother 
Ontara  is  in  Paris.  O  mother,  I  could 
not  close  my  eyes  with  joy.  I  could  do 
nothing  all  the  night  after  I  heard  it, 
but  thank  God,  and  long  for  the  next 
day.  I  was  to  see  him  the  next  day. 
I  have  seen  him,  and  he  is  as  good  and 
as  handsome,  and  loves  his  sister  Mina 
as  much  as  ever.  He  wishes  to  be  a 
Christian,  and  I  am  to  go  every  day 
with  Madame  Maret  to  the  Bishop's 
house  to  translate  the  instructions  he 
will  give  him  before  he  is  baptized. 
Nobody  but  me  could  make  him  under- 
stand. He  speaks  only  a  few  words  of 
French.  M.  Maret  said  he  would  write 
to  you  all  about  it.  He  has  bought 
him  from  the  government.  What  right 
has  the  government  to  sell  men,  and  to 
make  slaves  of  princes  ?  But  M.  Maret 
will  give  him  his  liberty.  He  told  me 


184 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


so  last  night.  It  is  the  old  Sachem's 
crucifix  which  brought  it  all  about. 
Ontara's  conversion  I  mean.  We  sat 
together  looking  at  it,  and  I  cried  with 
a  joy  that  was  like  pain,  it  went  so 
deeply  through  my  heart.  Ontara  did 
not  shed  tears,  because  Indians  never 
weep,  but  he  said  words  strong  as  the 
wind  and  hot  as  fire  about  the  Chris- 
tian prayer.  And  when  I  was  told  to 
ask  him  what  he  wished  most  to  see  in 
Paris,  he  answered :  *  The  house  of 
God— the  home  of  the  Great  Spirit.' 
I  have  not  time  to  write  much  more. 
Madame  Maret  has  sent  her  carriage 
to  fetch  me.  Dearest  mamma,  at  the 
Hotel  de  Senac,  where  I  saw  my  brother 
Ontara,  I  met  the  gentleman  who  bent 
the  silver  plate.  He  was  very  kind, 
and  talked  to  me  a  long  time.  Papa 
told  me  to  write  some  news,  but  I 
don't  think  I  know  any.  I  have  told 
you  the  good  news  which  makes  me  so 
happy.  Every  thing  else  seems  stupid. 
I  heard  somebody  say  last  night  that 
the  Princesse  des  Ursins  is  very  ill,  and 
that  the  young  Czar  of  Russia  "... 
the  letter  fell  from  the  mother's  hand — 
her  husband  seized  it  ...  "that 
the  young  Czar  of  Russia  has  just  died 
of  the  small-pox.  Give  a  hundred 
kisses  to  dearest  papa.  Oh  that  I  could 
hold  you  both  in  my  arms.  Do  come 
back  soon  to  your  own  Mina.  I  am 
very  happy  with  my  dear  brother,  but 
can  never  be  quite  happy  whilst  you 
are  both  away  from  me. — Your  loving 
and  dutiful  daughter, 

"  WlLHELMINA  D'AlJBAN." 

This  was  a  terrible  letter  for  a  moth- 
er to  receive  I  The  blow  was  a  sudden 
one,  and  the  manner  of  it  horribly  pain- 
ful. The  affection  her  daughter  ex- 
pressed for  the  stranger  she  called  her 
brother,  the  joyful  tone  in  which  she 
wrote,  filled  her  heart  with  a  feeling 
which  was  almost  like  resentment.  "  O  ! 
that  you  had  let  me  tell  her,"  she  cried. 


"  It  is  too  dreadful  that  his  sister 
.  .  .  ."  Then  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  said  no  more. 

It  was  a  very  bitter  grief.  "  It  may 
not  be  true,  dearest,"  said  her  hus- 
band ;  and  he  went  to  enquire  at  the 
Russian  consulate. 

She  never  doubted  that  it  was  true. 
There  had  always  been  in  her  mind  a 
misgiving  that  she  should  not  see  again 
the  royal  child  whom  she  had  left  in 
its  cradle.  Now  the  intervening  years 
seemed  as  nothing.  The  young  mon- 
arch dying  in  the  flower  of  his  age, 
rose  before  her  as  the  baby  of  those  by- 
gone days.  She  scarcely  noticed  d'Au- 
ban's  return,  or  the  words  of  pity  and 
sympathy  which  he  addressed  to  her. 
For  some  hours  she  could  not  weep  or 
speak,  but  went  into  a  church  and 
prayed  that  the  hard  dull  feeling  at 
her  heart  might  melt.  At  last  softer 
emotions  rose,  and  her  tears  flowed.  It 
was  a  kind  of  sorrow  which  had  its 
peculiar  bitterness,  and  its  peculiar 
consolations.  Now  she  felt  disen- 
gaged from  the  single  tie  which  had 
bound  her  to  the  past.  Her  son  seem- 
ed in  some  ways  nearer  to  her  in  the 
invisible  world,  where  her  prayers 
might  help  him,  than  on  the  far-off 
throne  she  had  not  dared  to  approach. 
By  degrees  a  peaceful  sadness  stole  over 
her — a  sense  of  rest.  She  could  dis- 
cern mercy  in  the  blow  which  had  re- 
moved him  from  a  scene  of  so  much 
strife  and  temptation. 

When  she  had  arrived  at  Havre  her 
feelings  had  been  very  much  excited. 
Looking  at  the  billowy  sea,  on  which 
she  was  soon  to  embark,  it  seemed  as 
if  all  its  waves  and  storms  had  gone 
over  her. 

The  fitful  lights,  the  transient  gleams, 
reflected  in  its  bosom  from  a  tempes- 
tuous sky  and  a  clouded  sunset,  pic- 
tured the  agitation  in  her  breast.  Now 
all  was  calm  as  a  waveless  sea.  Death's 
subduing  power  had  hushed  those  bil- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


185 


lows  to  rest.  Many  a  doubt  was  solv- 
ed by  its  cold  hand,  and  she  who  had 
so  eagerly  and  yet*  so  fearfully  looked 
forward  to  that  strange  journey,  now 
prepared  to  retrace  her  steps  with  a 
sadder  but  a  more  tranquil  heart. 

"  How  glad  you  must  now  be,"  she 
said  to  her  husband,  "  to  have  yielded 
to  my  wild  wish.  Another  day  and  I 
should  have  been  on  my  way  to  St. 
Petersburgh  1  How  strange  it  seems  ! 
No  outward  change  in  my  life,  and  yet 
so  great  a  one  in  my  hidden  existence. 
Was  there  ever,  I  wonder,  so  extraordi- 
nary a  fate  as  mine  ?  " 

As  she  said  this,  her  eye  rested  on 
Mina's  letter,  which  had  remained  on 
the  table,  and  she  exclaimed,  "Take  it 
away.  I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  it." 

D'Auban  was  grieved  about  this  let- 
ter. Of  course,  their  beloved  child  was 
not  to  blame  in  writing  as  she  had  done, 
and  the  outpouring  of  her  feelings  of 
joy  was  as  natural  as  the  feeling  itself. 
But  her  parents  found  it  difficult  to 
sympathize  at  that  moment  with  the 
happiness  she  expressed  at  Outara's 
arrival  in  Paris.  They  were  very  glad 
of  the  young  Indian  chiefs  safety,  and 
thankful  for  his  conversion.  It  would 
have  been  easier  for  them  to  rejoice  at 
the  news,  if  it  had  not  been  coupled 
with  the  actual  announcement  of  her 
unknown  brother's  death.  Both  felt 
how  immense  was  the  debt  of  grati- 
tude they  owed  to  the  Natches  youth, 
and  that  they  were  on  every  account 
bound  to  welcome  him  as  a  son.  They 
did  not  like  to  acknowledge,  even  to 
themselves,  the  involuntary  feeling  of 
regret  that  Mina  should  have  met  with 
him  again,  under  circumstances  likely  to 
increase  and  excite  to  the  uttermost  her 
interest  and  sympathy.  They  wanted 
her  to  be  a  little  more  like  other  girls, 
without  losing  any  of  her  goodness  or 
her  charm.  Perhaps  they  wanted  what 
was  not  possible.  At  all  events,  the 
romance  and  tenderness  of  her  nature, 


joined  to  a  simplicity  which  baffled 
all  attempts  to  make  her  see  things  in 
a  conventional  light,  made  it  probable 
that  she  would  attach  herself  more 
than  ever  to  her  adopted  brother ;  and 
would  behave  to  him  in  Paris  with  the 
same  innocent  and  affectionate  famili- 
arity which  had  existed  between  them 
in  the  days  of  her  captivity.  The  tie 
which  had  been  formed  between  them 
when  his  protection  had  been  all  im- 
portant, and  the  faithful  way  in  which 
he  had  fulfilled  the  trust  reposed  in  him, 
had  made  the  strongest  impression  on 
her  heart  and  her  imagination.  Mad- 
ame d'Auban  knew  her  daughter's  dis- 
position, and  the  impassioned  gratitude 
she  bore  to  her  young  deliverer,  who 
had  three  times  acted  by  her  the  part 
of  a  guardian  angel.  Not  for  the  world 
would  she  have  checked  that  feeling ; 
or  been  untrue,  herself,  to  those  senti- 
ments of  gratitude ;  but  she  was,  never- 
theless, anxious.  The  position  was  a 
peculiar  one,  and  Mina  might  surprise 
those  about  her  by  the  exhibition  of 
feelings  they  would  not  understand. 
She  longed  to  reach  Paris,  and  hasten 
their  departure  from  a  country  whence 
she  could  now  carry  away  with  her 
every  thing  she  had  left  to  care  for  on 
earth. 

On  the  evening  which  Mina  had  al- 
luded to  in  her  letter  to  her  parents, 
there  had  been,  as  was  usual  at  the 
Hotel  d'Orgeville,  visitors  in  the  even- 
ing. She  was  sitting,  with  the  young 
ladies  of  the  family  and  their  govern- 
ess, at  a  table  in  one  part  of  the  room, 
at  some  distance  from  the  circle  which 
surrounded  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
There  was  one  person  who  generally 
managed  to  seat  himself  by  the  side  of 
the  little  Creole,  and  to  engage  her  in 
conversation.  This  was  M.  Maret,  the 
brother  of  Father  Maret,  whom  she 
had  so  much  loved,  and  about  whom 
he  had  always  something  to  ask,  and 
she  something  to  tell.  Every  detail  of 


186 


TOO     STKANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TKUE* 


his  apostolic  life  at  the  Illinois  inter- 
ested him ;  and  he  never  wearied  of 
hearing  her  relate  the  story  of  the  last 
journey  he  had  made  with  her  parents 
and  herself,  and  of  the  way  in  which 
he  had  employed  the  hours  which  pre- 
ceded his  tragical  death.  She  had 
often  mentioned  to  him  his  visit  to  the 
old  dying  sachem ;  and  how,  with  his 
last  breath,  he  had  recommended  On- 
tara  to  her  father.  And  this  led  them 
often  to  talk  of  Ontara.  She  told  him 
how  good  and  generous  he  was  ;  how  he 
had  been  a  friend  in  the  hour  of  need 
to  her  mother  and  herself;  and  that  he 
preserved  a  touching  reverence  for  the 
black  robe  who  had  been  kind  to  his 
adopted  father,  the  old  sachem  Outalis- 
si.  D'Auban  had  confirmed  all  his 
daughter's  statements  as  to  the  merits 
of  the  young  Indian  chief;  and  had 
begged  M.  Maret,  if  any  intelligence 
as  to  his  fate  ever  reached  the  Govern- 
ment, to  use  all  his  influence  in  obtain- 
ing for  him  the  most  favourable  treat- 
ment. He  had  spoken  to  the  same  ef- 
fect to  the  Minister  of  the  Colonies, 
and  never  omitted  an  opportunity  of 
discharging  this  debt  of  gratitude. 

On  the  evening  already  referred  to, 
M.  Maret  had  just  returned  from  a 
journey  to  the  south  of  France.  As  he 
entered  the  salon  of  the  Hotel  d'Orge- 
ville,  there  was  a  look  of  satisfaction 
in  his  countenance,  mixed  with  a  lit- 
tle self-complacency.  After  paying  his 
compliments  to  Madame  d'Orgeville 
and  bowing  to  the  rest  of  the  company, 
he  said,  as  he  seated  himself  by  that 
lady's  side,  "I  hastened,  madam,  to 
pay  my  respects  to  you ;  but  my  visit 
must,  I  fear,  be  a  short  one,  for  I  have 
a  guest  at  home  to  whose  entertainment 
I  must  devote  myself." 

"A  personage  of  distinction,  I  doubt 
not  ?  "  said  Madame  d'Orgeville. 

"  I  think,"  answered  M.  Maret,  glanc- 
ing round  the  room  and  fixing  his  eyes 
on  Mina,  "  that  I  may  venture  to  reply 


in  the  affirmative.     My  guest    is  of 
princely  birth." 

"  A  prince  ! "  cried  two  or  three 
ladies  at  once.  "  A  French  or  a  for- 
eign prince  ? " 

"  A  foreigner,  mesdames." 

"  The  pretender,  perhaps  ? "  suggested 
one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  The  King  of  England,  you  mean  ? '» 
cried  an  elderly  lady,  who  had  been 
about  the  Court  of  St.  Germain. 

"  No  ;  I  had  the  honour  of  meeting 
that  royal  individual  at  the  Due  de  Lau- 
zun's  house  some  years  ago,  when  he 
was  at  Passy.  But  he  is  not  the  person 
alluded  to." 

"  A  foreigner ! "  ejaculated  Madame 
d'Orgeville.  "You  must  really  give 
us  a  hint.  Is  he  German  or  Italian? 
Catholic  or  Protestant  ? " 

"  Neither,  Madame." 

"Heavens!  Is  he  a  Turk?"  cried 
Mdlle.  Bachelier,  the  governess. 

"  My  young  guest,  mesdames,  is  the 
scion  of  a  royal  race  ;  the  last  remain- 
ing descendant  of  the  Children  of  the 
Sun." 

Mina  started  up,  much  to  the  surprise 
of  her  companions,  clasped  her  hands 
together,  and,  breathless  with  surprise 
and  agitation,  gasped  out  the  words — 
"  My  brother  Ontara  ? " 

"  Yes ;  the  young  prince  Ontara," 
answered  the  Prince  de  Conde's  secre- 
tary, rubbing  his  hands  with  delight, 
"Mesdames,  this  noble  Indian  aided 
the  escape  of  our  friend  M.  le  Colonel 
d'Auban,  and  was  the  friend  and  pro-  . 
tector  of  his  wife  and  daughter  during 
their  captivity." 

"  And  he  adopted  me  as  his  sister," 
said  Mina,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 
"  After  the  destruction  of  the  Natchea 
and  the  slaughter  of  their  royal  fam- 
ily," M.  Maret  went  on  to  say,  "  he  and 
another  young  man  who  had  also 
escaped  the  vengeance  of  our  troops, 
took  refuge  amidst  a  neighbouring 
tribe,  and  lived  there  in  concealment. 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


187 


There  was  a  Christian  Mission  in  that 
neighbourhood,  and  he  used  to  visit 
the  black  robe."  "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad ! " 
ejaculated  Mina,  whose  head  was  bent 
forward  and  whose  eyes  seemed  to 
dilate  with  the  intentness  of  her  inter- 
est. "  Some  fanatical  Indians  accused 
him  of  a  leaning  towards  the  French- 
men's prayer,  and  either  on  that  account 
or  to  gain  the  reward  promised  by  the 
Government,  betrayed  him  to  the  French 
authorities.  He  and  his  companion 
were  carried  in  chains  to  New  Orleans. 
M.  Perrier  ordered  them  to  be  well 
treated  and  sent  to  France,  where  the 
Government  would  then  ultimately  de- 
cide their  fate.  They  were  to  be  sold 
as  slaves  on  their  arrival,  unless  any 
special  orders  to  the  contrary  had  been 
received.  I  happened  to  be  at  Mar- 
seilles when  they  landed,  and  offered 
to  purchase  Ontara  in  order  to  take  him 
away  with  me  at  once.  This  was  agreed 
to  under  reserve,  and  thus  he  became 
my  slave." 

A  shade,  dark  as  a  thunder-cloud, 
rose  on  Mina's  speaking  face.  "  But  I 
need  hardly  add  only -in  name,  and 
to  enable  me  to  receive  into  my  home 
a  son  the  youth  to  whom  my 
martyred  brother's  last  thought  was 
given." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  sym- 
pathy ;  and  as  to  Mina,  she  could  not 
any  longer  sit  still.  Darting  across  the 
room  she  seized  his  hand  in  both  hers, 
and  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  ex- 
claimed : 

4'  I  love  you  dearly,  M.  Maret.  May 
the  good  God  reward  you."  He  made 
room  for  her  on  the  couch,  and  she  sat 
down  by  his  side,  hanging  down  her 
lovely  head,  for  she  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  too  bold,  but  not  letting  go  his 
hand. 

"I  was  immensely  struck,"  he  went 
on  to  say,  "  with  Ontara's  appearance 
and  manners.  He  is  singularly  gentle 
and  pleasing,  and  shows  great  intelli- 


gence, although  he  knows  as  yet  but  a 
very  few  words  of  French.  I  contrived 
to  make  him  understand  that  I  was  the 
brother  of  the  black  robe  of  the  Illi- 
nois who  was  killed  at  the  Natches. 
The  Indian  words  I  have  learnt  from 
you,  Mademoiselle  Mina,  were  of  great 
use  to  me.  His  face  lighted  up  imme- 
diately; and,  half  by  words  half  by 
signs,  he  expressed  that  he  remembered 
that  black  robe,  and  would  love  me  be- 
cause I  was  his  brother.  I  then  men- 
tioned your  name,  Mademoiselle  Hina, 
and  I  wish  every  lady  here  could  have 
seen  him  at  that  moment.  Mesdames) 
it  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  one 
of  our  best  actors  to  have  caught  that 
expression.  It  was  emotion,  but  an 
emotion  that  rose  from  the  soul  into 
the  eyes,  if  I  may  so  speak,  without 
stirring  a  muscle  of  the  calm  immova- 
ble countenance.  I  felt  as  if  I  could 
hear  his  heart  beat,  but  his  features  did 
not  move.  He  drew  a  little  crucifix 
from  his  breast,and  pressed  it  to  his  lips." 

"We  both  kissed  it  in  the  forest 
where  we  parted,"  said  the  girl,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  I  knew  he  would  always 
keep  it.  What  was  the  other  Indian's 
name,M.  Maret?" 

"  Osseo." 

"  Oh  1  I  knew  him,"  Mina  exclaimed, 
and  shuddered. 

"He  has  escaped,"  said  M.  Maret. 
"  The  very  night  they  disembarked  he 
got  away  from  the  lodging  where  they 
were;  and  when  we  left  Marseilles 
nothing  had  been  heard  of  him." 

"  When  shall  I  see  Ontara,  dear  M. 
Maret?" 

"  If  Madame  d'Orgeville  will  permit 
it,  I  will  bring  him  here  to-morrow." 

"  Permit  it ! "  exclaimed  that  lady. 
"I  shall  be  quite  delighted  to  make 
acquaintance  with  the  young  Indian 
prince.  My  rooms  will  scarcely  hold 
all  the  friends  who  will  wish  to  be 
present  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  in- 
troduction into  French  society." 


188 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"How  interesting  it  will  be,"  said 
one -lady  to  another,  "to  witness  the 
meeting  between  the  lovely  Creole  and 
her  deliverer  ? " 

Mina  thought  it  very  long  to  wait  till 
the  next  evening,  but  did  not  venture 
to  say  so.  As  M.  Maret  was  going 
away,  she  asked  Madame  d'Orgeville 
if  she  might  take  a  sprig  of  jessamine 
out  of  a  nosegay  on  the  table,  and  giv- 
ing it  to  him,  she  said  : 

"Will  you  tell  Ontara  that  Mina 
sends  him  this  flower.  In  the  language 
we  used  to  speak  together,  it  means, 
'  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart.'  " 

Mdlle.  Bachelier  lifted  up  her  eyes, 
and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Thank  Heaven  that  girl  is 
no  pupil  of  mine ! "  or,  in  familiar 
English,  "Who  ever  witnessed  such 
behaviour  ? "  and  it  was  probable  no- 
body ever  had,  in  the  only  world  Mdlle. 
Bachelier  was  acquainted  with,  seen  any 
thing  at  all  like  it. 

Mina's  simplicity  was  too  perfect  to 
be  easily  understood.  Some  of  Mad- 
ame d'Orgeville's  visitors,  who  belonged 
to  the  school  which  influenced  through 
its  different  phases  the  tone  of  French 
literature,  from  Rousseau  to  Bernardin 
de  St.  Pierre  and  Chateaubriand,  en- 
chanted with  the  beauty  and  naivete  of 
Mina  d'Auban,  extolled  her  sensibility, 
and  raised  her  to  the  rank  of  a  heroine 
of  romance.  The  prudent  governess, 
and  the  sentimental  ladies,  were  both 
mistaken  in  the  estimate  of  her  charac- 
ter. She  was  neither  bold  nor  roman- 
tic. She  had  been  brought  up  under 
peculiar  circumstances,  amidst  peculiar 
scenes,  in  a  remote  country.  She  had 
strong  feelings,  and  what  she  strongly 
felt  she  expressed  without  disguise. 
Her  figurative  imaginative  manner  of 
speaking  was  just  as  natural  to  her  as  the 
conventional  language  of  a  French  draw- 
ing-room was  to  her  companions.  The 
wish  to  attract  notice  or  to  excite  admi- 
ration had  never  even  crossed  her  mind. 


Changeful  and  faint  was  her  fair  cheek's  hue, 
Though  clear  as  a  flower  which  the  light 

looks  through, 

And  the  glance  of  her  dark,  deep,  azure  eye, 
For  the  aspect  of  girlhood  at  times  too  high. 

On  the  following  morning,  M.  Maret 
called  on  Madame  d'Orgeville  to  inform 
her  that  Madame  de  Senac  greatly  de- 
sired to  induce  her — instead  of  receiving 
the  Natches  prince  at  her  own  house — 
to  accept  an  invitation  to  the  soiree 
she  was  to  give  that  evening,  and  to 
meet  him  there  instead.  Several  dis- 
tinguished personages  of  the  court  and 
the  town,  as  well  as  some  of  the  most 
eminent  members  of  the  Paris  clergy, 
had  intimated  their  intention  of  hon- 
ouring her  with  their  company. 

"  It  would  be  a  most  brilliant  re- 
union," M.  Maret  observed,  with  evident 
satisfaction. 

If  this  excellent  man  had  a  weakness, 
it  was  the  love  of  a  little  innocent  dis- 
play. Madame  d'Orgeville  was  very 
gracious,  and  yielded  with  a  good  grace 
her  prior  right  to  the  visit  of  the  Indian 
chief.  Though  a  little  disappointed  at 
having  to  put  off  the  party  she  had  in- 
tended to  assemble  on  this  occasion, 
she  was  pleased  at  being  invited  to  the 
Hotel  de  S6nac,  the  society  of  which 
was  more  decidedly  aristocratic  than 
her  own. 

Madame  de  Senac  was  a  widow,  rich, 
amiable,  and  accomplished ;  her  morals 
as  unexceptionable  as  her  character  was 
unimpeachable.  Having  married  a  man 
of  high  rank,  she  had  the  entrees  at 
court;  but  her  own  family  belonging 
to  the  parliamentary  noblesse,  she  was 
also  connected  with  the  financial  world 
of  that  day,  and  her  salon  was  a  neutral 
territory,  in  which  persons  of  various 
ranks  and  various  parties  met  oftener 
than  at  any  other  house  in  Paris.  Pious 
and  learned  ecclesiastics  sometimes  at- 
tended her  receptions,  as  well  as  literary 
and  worldly  abbes.  Courtiers  and  men 
of  letters,  bankers  and  princes,  honoured 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


180 


her  with  their  company.  There  were 
certain  lingering  traditions  of  the  H6tel 
de  Rambouillet  in  the  tone  of  her  more 
intimate  society — a  refinement  which 
was  beginning  to  be  lost  sight  of  since 
the  days  of  the  regency.  But  if  some 
of  her  habitues  maintained  the  noble 
dignity  of  language  and  of  manners 
which  prevailed  in  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon's  boudoir,  others  were  beginning 
to  indulge  in  the  false  sentimentality 
and  pedantic  free-thinking  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century. 

Madame  d'Orgeville's  satisfaction  at 
the  prospect  of  her  first  appearance  in 
this  new  scene  of  fashion,  was  greatly 
increased  by  Madame  dc  Senac's  press- 
ing request  that  she  would  bring  with 
her  Colonel  d'Auban's  daughter.  She 
foresaw  that  Mina's  beauty,  and  the  tie 
between  her  and  the  young  prince,  who 
would  have  been  called  in  our  days  the 
lion  of  the  evening,  would  attract  con- 
siderable notice;  and  she  spared  no 
pains  to  dress  her  in  the  most  becoming 
manner,  which  she  had  taste  enough  to 
see  was  as  simply  as  possible,  with  just 
enough  of  peculiarity  as  served  to  recall 
•that,  notwithstanding  her  height,  she 
was  still  almost  a  child,  and  that  she 
had  been  born  under  a  transatlantic 
sky. 

The  apartments  of  the  H6tel  de  S6nac 
were  brilliantly  lighted  that  evening, 
and  coloured  lamps  hung  amidst  the 
foliage  of  its  spacious  garden.  At  an 
early  hour,  numbers  of  persons  arrived, 
all  anxious  to  witness  the  introduction 
of  a  native  of  a  new — and,  to  them, 
utterly  unknown — world,  into  a  Paris- 
ian drawing-room.  The  Indian  chief 
was  an  object  of  curiosity  to  men  of 
science,  of  letters,  and  of  piety ;  all  such 
were,  for  different  reasons,  curious  to 
watch  the  effects  which  a  first  sight  of 
European  civilized  society  would  have 
on  the  young  Natches. 

When  M.  and  Madame  d'Orgeville 
arrived,  the  principal  room  was  almost 


full.  When  it  became  known  that  the 
young  girl  who  accompanied  them  had 
been  present  at  the  first  fearful  scenes 
of  the  insurrection,  and  owed  her  life 
to  the  protection  of  the  Indian  youth 
now  in  Paris,  the  wish  to  sec  and  t«> 
speak  to  her  became  general.  As  much 
of  her  story  as  was  briefly  related  by 
the  mistress  of  the  house  flew  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  quite  a  rush  was  made 
to  the  part  of  the  room  where  she  was 
sitting,  quite  unconscious  of  the  atten- 
tion she  excited,  and  only  longing  for 
the  moment  of  Ontara's  arrival. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  so  lovely  a  crea- 
ture ? "  said  the  Due  d'Epernon  to  the 
Comte  de  Courtray. 

"  Better  worth  notice,  I  should  say, 
than  the  Red  Indian  we  are  come  to 
see,"  answered  the  Count. 

"  Can  you  believe  she  is  not  yet  tliir- 
teen  years  old  ? " 

"  She  looks  sixteen,  if  not  seventeen," 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"  D'Orban  or  d'Auban." 

"  There  was  a  colonel  of  that  name 
who  rescued  a  number  of  French  cap- 
tives from  a  tribe  of  savages." 

"Exactly  so;  and  this  girl  is  his 
daughter." 

"  She  will  not-  be  long  on  his  hands, 
if  beauty  achieves  fortune.  What  eyes  I 
What  a  smile !  The  world  will  be  at 
her  feet  some  day." 

A  celebrated  linguist,  who  had  been 
studying  a  vocabulary  of  Indian  words 
compiled  by  a  missionary,  in  order  to 
frame  a  compliment  to  the  Natches 
prince,  requested  the  favour  of  an  in- 
troduction to  Mina. 

"Mademoiselle,  do  you  speak  the 
Natches  language?"  he  asked.  "II 
so,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  in- 
struct me  how  to  pronounce  this  sen- 
tence ? "  Others  crowding  around  her. 
begged  to  hear  from  her  own  lips  the 
story  of  her  captivity  and  her  escape. 
Madame  d'Orgcvi  lie,  enchanted  at  find- 
ing herself,  by  means  of  her  young  com- 


190 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


panion,  a  centre  of  attraction,  desired 
Mina  to  comply  with  the  request,  and 
relate  all  she  had  witnessed  of  the 
Natches  insurrection.  She  coloured, 
and  her  voice  trembled  a  little,  as, 
turning  to  her  protectress,  she  said, 
"  Where  shall  I  begin  ? " 

"  With  your  arrival  at  the  Indian 
city,  on  the  eve  of  the  massacre,  my 
love." 

The  first  words  the  child  spoke  in 
her  sweet,  musical,  and  slightly  tremu- 
lous voice,  arrested  every  one's  atten- 
tion. She  ceased  to  feel  shy  when  once 
she  had  begun.  It  would  make  every- 
body love  Ontara,  she  thought,  to  hear 
how  good  he  had  been  to  the  whitey 
captives ;  and  to  speak  of  the  scenes  so 
indelibly  impressed  on  her  mind,  but 
which  she  never  mentioned  in  her  home, 
was  a  relief  to  her  pent-up  feelings. 
And  so  she  told  her  simple,  thrilling 
tale  with  such  pathos  and  such  natural 
eloquence,  and  her  countenance  lighted 
up  with  such  a  wonderful  animation, 
that  soon  every  sound  was  hushed  in 
the  crowded  room,  and  every  eye  was 
fixed  upon  her  speaking  face.  She 
described  the  death  of  the  priest  at  the 
altar ;  the  massacre  which  ensued ;  her 
father's  escape  ;  her  mother's  anguish ; 
Ontara's  generous  friendship ;  his  adop- 
tion of  her  as  his, sister;  their  affection 
for  each  other ;  their  flight  through  the 
forest  where  the  captives  were  doomed 
to  death ;  her  father's  return  at  the 
head  of  the  brave  Choktaws ;  the  rescue 
of  the  French  prisoners ;  the  struggle 
between  Pearl  Feather  and  "Osseo ;  On- 
tara's arrival;  Pearl  Feather's  death, 
and  her  final  deliverance.  Sometimes 
her  cheeks  glowed  with  enthusiasm, 
sometimes  her  voice  trembled  with  ex- 
citement. Tears  streamed  down  her 
face  without  marring  its  loveliness; 
and  when  she  spoke  of  the  beautiful 
land  in  which  these  wild  scenes  had 
been  enacted,  there  was  a  mournful, 
impassioned  tenderness  in  her  expres- 


sions and  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  which 
thrilled  the  bosoms  of  her  auditors,  and 
lingered  in  their  ears,  even  when  she 
had  finished  speaking,  like  the  notes 
of  some  exquisite  music.  Many  an  eye 
which  had  long  ceased  to  weep  was 
moistened  that  day ;  and  hearts  which 
had  forgotten  what  it  is  to  feel,  were 
conscious  of  an  unwonted  emotion. 

Soon  after  Mina  had  ended  her  re- 
cital, whilst  she  was  answering  the 
many  questions  which  were  addressed 
to  her,  a  servant  came  up  to  Madame 
de  Senac,  and  told  her  M.  Maret  and 
the  Indian  prince  were  arrived.  She 
went  to  meet  them,  and  when  they  en- 
tered the  room,  all  eyes  now  turned  on 
the  stranger.  The  greatest  curiosity 
was  felt  as  to  the  way  in  which  two 
young  creatures  would  meet,  who  were 
bound  to  one  another  by  so  singular  a 
tie;  who  had  parted  in  a  primeval 
forest  amidst  danger  and  death,  and 
now  stood  face  to  face  in  a  Paris  draw- 
ing-room, under  the  eyes  of  a  set  of 
worldly  men  and  women.  Well,  the 
refined,  well-bred  society  was  taken  by 
surprise.  They  were  prepared  to  wit- 
ness an  interesting  scene ;  they  did  not 
expect  to  be  touched  to  the  bottom  of 
their  hearts.  The  moment  Ontara  ap- 
peared, Mina  ran  to  him,  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  and  kissed  his 
cheek.  He  started,  his  frame  quivered, 
his  eyes,  which  had  been  bent  on  the 
ground,  were  suddenly  raised.  Step- 
ping back,  he  seized  Mina,  held  her  at 
arm's  length,  and  gazed^on  her  face 
with  an  intensity  which  seemed  to 
pierce  through  her  features  to  her  very 
soul.  In  that  long  fixed  gaze  there 
was  reminiscence,  and  joy,  and  eager 
questioning.  At  last,  in  his  own 
tongue,  he  said,  "  Sister  of  my  adop- 
tion, have  you  forgotten  our  language  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  the  land  that  was 
a  garden  of  delight  before  the  white 
man  had  set  his  foot  upon  it  ? " 

"  I  have  forgotten  nothing,  my  broth- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


191 


er ;  nothing,"  cried  Mina,  her  eyes  fill- 
ing with  tears. 

"  Not  your  promise  ? "  he  eagerly  ex- 
claimed. 

"No;  nothing,"  she  repeated.  "I 
remember  every  word  we  have  spoken 
together." 

"  And  I,  too,  have  not  forgotten  my 
promise,"  said  the  Indian,  and  he  drew 
the  sachem's  crucifix  from  his  bosom. 

By  this  time  a  crowd  had  gathered 
round  them,  and  Madame  d'Orgeville, 
stepping  forward,  took  Mina  by  the 
hand  and  made  her  sit  down  again  by 
her  side.  The  little  hand  was  cold  and 
trembling,  and  the  child's  heart — for 
it  was,  after  all,  still  a  child's  heart — 
was  beating  too  fast  for  its  strength. 
When  Ontara  had  asked  her  if  she  re- 
membered her  promise,  she  had  unhesi- 
tatingly replied  that  she  did,  for  it  was 
the  truth.  But  since  she  had  been  in 
France,  and  had  become  acquainted 
with  other  girls,  she  had  begun  to  un- 
derstand why  her  mother  had  been  vex- 
ed and  almost  angry  with,  her  for  hav- 
ing promised  Ontara  never  to  marry 
a  white  man.  In  the  midst  of  her  joy 
at  his  return,  she  felt  a  vague  misgiv- 
ing that  her  parents  would  not  be  as 
glad  as  herself  to  see  him,  and  this  sore- 
ly troubled  her. 

Meanwhile  several  persons  were  en- 
deavouring to  converse  with  Ontara, 
partly  by  means  of  signs,  partly  by 
means  of  the  few  French  words  he 
had  learnt.  Everybody  was  attracted 
by  his  appearance.  He  had  grown 
very  much  during  the  two  last  years. 
His  regular  features;  his  fine  melan- 
choly eyes ;  the  rich  olive  of  his  com- 
plexion, had  all  the  beauty  of  which 
his  race  are  sometimes  possessed; 
and  Mina,  perfectly  accustomed  to  the 
colour  of  the  red  men,  and  who  saw  in 
his  dress,  changed  in  many  respects,  but 
not  altogether  altered  since  his  arrival 
in  Europe,  a  reminiscence  of  the  happy 
days  of  her  childhood,  thought  there 


could  not  be  on  earth  a  handsomer 
form  and  face  than  that  of  her  adopted 
brother.  There  were  traces  of  sorrow 
and  of  Buffering,  as  well  as  of  stern 
endurance,  on  his  brow.  His  keen, 
intelligent  countenance  betokened  in- 
tellectual power.  To  the  voluble 
speeches  and  compliments  addressed 
to  him,  he  answered  : — 

"  Your  words  arc  good,"  or,  "  It  is 
well,"  or  "Ontara  thanks  you;"  that 
was  almost  all  he  could  say  in  French. 

"My  sweet  love,"  said  Madame  de 
Senac  to  Mina,  "  some  of  these  gentle- 
men wish  you  to  ask  your  Indian 
brother  what  he  most  wishes  to  see  in 
Paris.  They  would  gladly  act  as  his 
guides,  and  conduct  him  to  the  king's 
palace,  or  the  picture  galleries,  or  the 
shops,  or  the  public  gardens.  Find  out, 
my  dear,  what  would  interest  him-most." 

Mina  went  up  to  Ontara,  and  after 
speaking  a  few  words  with  him,  turned 
round  to  the  company.  "My  brother 
says  that  his  father  and  his  brethren 
are  no  more,  and  their  palaces  de- 
stroyed. He  cares  not  to  see  the  pal- 
ace of  the  French  chief.  The  beauti- 
ful gardens  of  his  native  village  are 
uprooted,  and  he  does  not  wish  to 
look  on  the  gardens  of  the  great  French 
village.  His  kinsmen  are  bondsmen; 
chains  are  on  their  hands,  and  the 
iron  of  those  chains  has  entered 
into  his  soul.  He  has  nothing  to  buy 
in  the  white  man's  cabins.  He  says 
there  is  only  one  place  for  the  slave, 
the  exile,  the  sad  in  heart,  and  it  is 
there  he  wishes  to  go.  To  the  home 
of  the  Great  Spirit :  to  the  Temple  of 
the  Christian  prayer." 

Minn's  eyes  overflowed  as  she  trans- 
lated Ontara 's  words. 

The  Bishop  of  Auxerre  stepped  for- 
ward and  said  to  Mina,  "  Ask  him  if  he 
wishes  to  be  made  a  Christian." 

She  did  so,  and  again  rendered  his 
answer  into  French.  "  The  Christian's 
God  was  once  sold  as  a  slave.  He  had 


192 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


no  cabin  of  his  own.  He  was  an  exile 
from  his  home  in  the  skies.  The  sun  is 
a  bright  and  beautiful  god,  far  away 
above  our  heads,  but  I  do  not  care  for 
him  now.  This  God  (and  he  touched 
the  crucifix  in  his  bosom)  is  the  God 
of  the  mourner ;  the  redeemer  of  the 
captive." 

The  pathos  of  this  speech  struck  the 
men  and  women  of  the  world  who 
heard  it.  If  there  were  present  philos- 
ophers of  the  new  school,  inclined  to 
scoff  at  the  homage  paid  to  the  God  of 
sufferers — the  God  made  man — they 
were  in  the  minority,  and  did  not  ven- 
ture openly  to  sneer. 

M.  de  Caylus  laid  his  hand  on  Mina's 
shoulder,  and  said,  "  My  child,  tell  the 
young  chief  that  I  will  myself  take  him 
to-morrow  to  our  great  Christian  tem- 
ple, the  cathedral  of  N6tre  Dame ;  and 
that  I  shall  be  happy  to  instruct  him, 
and  to  prepare  him  for  baptism." 

Mina  conveyed  the  bishop's  message 
to  Ontara,  who  answered  something 
that  made  her  smile.  The  bishop  de- 
sired to  know  what  he  had  said. 
"  Monseigneur,  Ontara  says  you  are  not 
a  black  robe ;  and  that  it  is  the  religion 
of  the  black  robes  he  believes  in." 

M.  d'Auxerre  laughed.  "  Tell  him," 
he  said,  "  that  though  I  wear  purple,  I 
believe  and  teach  the  same  religion  as 
the  black  robes ;  that  we  are  sheep  of 
the  same  flock,  if  not  birds  of  the  same 
feather." 

Mina  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
Ontara,  and  then,  turning  to  the  bishop, 
said,  "  Monseigneur,  I  have  told  him 
that  you  are  one  of  the  chief  shepherds 
of  the  flock,  and  he  says  it  is  well,  and 
that  your  words  are  good." 

M.  de  Caylus  smiled,  and  said  to  M. 
Maret,  "I  will  call  in  my  carriage  to- 
morrow, and  take  your  young  friend  to 
N6tre  Dame.  It  is  becoming  that  his 
wish  should  be  fulfilled,  and  that  the 
time-honoured  walls  of  our  old  cathe- 
dral should  witness  his  first  act  of 


homage  at  the  foot  of  a  Christian 
altar."  Then,  turning  to  Madame 
d'Orgeville,  he  added,  "Madame,  I 
understand  that  this  young  lady  re- 
mains under  your  care  during  her  par- 
ents' absence.  Will  you  permit  her  to 
act  as  interpreter  between  my  neophyte 
and  me  ? " 

A  courteous  reply  was  given,  and  M.    ! 
Maret  proposed  that  his  wife  should 
call  every  day  for  Mina,  and  take  her  to 
M.  d'Auxerre's  hotel. 

The  bishop  thanked  him,  and  said  to 
Mina,  "  You  will  go  through  a  course 
of  theology,  Mademoiselle ;  and  whilst 
teaching  your  deliverer  you  will  your- 
self acquire  knowledge." 

Mina  answered  by  a  request  which 
she  made  in  a  low  voice.  "  Monseig- 
neur, may  Ontara  and  I  make  our  first 
communion  together  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  my  child,"  the  bishop 
kindly  replied;  and  then  he  went  to 
pay  his  compliments  to  some  of  the 
great  people  in  the  room. 

Madame  de  Senac  had  conducted 
Ontara  into  her  picture  gallery,  and 
Mina  was  following  them  with  her 
eyes,  when  her  attention  was  arrested 
by  a  tall  man  in  uniform,  whom  she 
felt  sure  she  had  seen  somewhere  be- 
fore, and  the  next  moment  she  remem- 
bered it  was  the  gentleman  who  had 
spoken  to  her  mother  in  the  Tuileries 
gardens.  She  whispered  to  Madame 
d'Orgeville: 

"  Madame,  what  is  the  name  of  that 
tall  officer  in  the  doorway  ? " 

"  He  is  a  general,  my  dear,  and  one 
of  the  bravest  in  the  French  army — the 
Count  Maurice  de  Saxe." 

"  Ah  ! "  thought  Mina,  "  he  said  to 
mamma,  '  Where  can  you  find  a  truer 
friend  than  Maurice  of  Saxony  ? ' "  and 
then  other  things  he  had  said  came 
back  to  her  mind :  "  Have  we  not  wept 
over  the  death  of  another  Wilhelmi-  ; 
na?"  and,  "Dear  companion  of  my 
early  days ! "  and.she  mused  over  these 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


198 


itences,  and  wondered  if  the  count 
ild  know  her  again,  and  perhaps 
ik  to  her.     She  could  hardly  fancy 
khat  he  had  been  her  mother's  play- 
fellow— that  they  had  gathered  flowers 
id  built  reed  huts,  or  ran  races  to- 
jther,  in  their  childhood.    She  wished 
le  would  roll  up  another  silver  plate, 
lat  Ontara  might  see  it. 
"  Have  you  seen  the  wonder  of  the 
jvening,  M.  le  Comte  ? "  said  a  pretty 
'oman,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  the 
(fashion,  to  M.  de  Saxe. 

"Not  the  Red  Indian,  madame,  if 
u  mean  him." 

"  No ;  I  mean  something  infinitely 
ore  attractive.  A  lovely  Creole — a 
ere  child,  but  a  perfect  beauty.  Your 
jyes  will  be  much  better  employed  in 
king  at  her  than  at  the  savage." 
"  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  their  pres- 
t  employment,"  answered  the  count, 
ith  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  but  I  really  wish  you  to  see  this 
;on.    Her  meeting  with  the  Indian 
the  prettiest  thing  imaginable.     I 
fcvould  not  have  missed  it  for  all  the 
orld.     Such  vivacity ;  such  charming 
nsibility;  and  then  such  eyes!     But 
there  she  is,  on  the  sofa  near  the  win- 
dow." 

"That  girl,"  exclaimed  the  count, 
'  that  young  girl  in  white,  with  a  single 
se  in  her  hair  ?    Who  is  she  ?    Who 
she  with?" 

"  With  Madame  d'Orgeville,  the  wife 
f  the  President  des  Comptes." 
"  That  lady  in  green,  do  you  know 
er,  madame  ?    May  I  ask  you  to  intro- 
duce me  ? " 

While  the  count  was  speaking  he  did 
t  take  his  eyes  off  Mina. 

Ah !  M.  le  Comte !  Have  you 
lien  in  love  already  ? "  exclaimed  the 
,dy.  "Is  she  not  charming?  But 
ow  old  those  Creoles  look !  I  hope 
sy  have  gray  hairs  at  thirty,  or  it 
uld  not  be  fair  upon  us  who  were 
.ts  at  that  young  lady's  age." 
13 


So  saying  the  lady  led  the  way  across 
the  room,  and  introduced  M.  de  Saxe 
to  Madame  d'Orgeville.  He  bowed, 
and  looking  towards  Mina,  said  :— 

"  Mademoiselle  is  your  daughter, 
madame  ? " 

"  O !  no,  M.  le  Comte.  My  daughters 
are  too  young  to  go  into  society." 

"  Aye,  indeed  1  I  thought  you  were 
too  young,  madame,  to  be  that  young 
lady's  mother." 

"  Pardon  !  M.  le  Comte.  My  daugh- 
ters are  both  older  than  Mademoiselle 
d'Auban ;  but  she  was  invited  here  to- 
night to  meet  the  Indian  chief,  whose 
only  acquaintance  she  is  in  what  we 
must  henceforward  call  the  old  world. 
It  is  a  curious  history,  M.  de  Saxe.  This 
young  Natches  saved  her  and  her  father 
at  the  time  of  the  insurrection." 

"  You  don't  say  so ! "  exclaimed  the 
count,  seating  himself  by  the  side  of 
Mina.  "  O,  mademoiselle,  do  tell  me 
all  about  it.  I  like  of  all  things  excit- 
ing stories;  next  to  fighting  a  battle, 
the  best  thing  is  to  hear  of  one." 

"  Is  it  true,  M.  de  Saxe,"  said  a  lady 
who  was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of 
the  count,  "that  a  troupe  of  actors 
always  accompany  you  in  your  cam- 
paigns, and  that,  on  a  recent  occasion, 
notice  was  given  in  the  playbills  that 
there  would  be  no  performance  the  next 
day  on  account  of  the  battle  M.  le  Comte 
de  Saxe  intended  to  give?" 

"  Perfectly  true,  madame,"  answered 
the  count ;  "  but  though  I  am  passion- 
ately fond  of  the  play,  I  am  not  sorry 
sometimes  to  escape  a  theatrical  per- 
formance." 

And  withdrawing  his  chair  he  turned 
again  to  the  little  girl  on  his  left.  The 
bystanders  smiled,  for,  though  the  lady 
had  never  appeared  on  the  stage,  she 
had  the  reputation  of  being  a  consum- 
mate actress.  M.  de  Saxe  drew  Mina 
into  conversation,  and  made  her  repeat 
to  him  the  story  she  had  already  told 
that  evening.  When  she  spoke  of  her 


194 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


father,  and  the  rescue  of  the  pnsoners, 
he  said : 

"  I  remember  hearing  at  the  time  of 
Colonel  d'Auban's  gallant  conduct.  I 
wish  you  joy,  mademoiselle.  You  have 
a  brave  man  for  your  father.  Will  you 
tell  him,  when  he  returns  to  Paris,  that 
the  Comte  de  Saxe  would  be  proud  to 
make  his  acquaintance  ? " 

Mina  coloured  with  pleasure.  "  My 
father  and  mother  are  in  Brittany,"  she 
said. 

"  Ah !  and  when  do  they  come 
back?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  rather 
sadly. 

The  expression  of  her  face  put  him 
so  powerfully  in  mind  of  her  mother  at 
her  age,  that  he  could  scarcely  help 
saying  so. 

"  You  have  been  already  a  great  trav- 
eller, Mademoiselle  "Wilhelmina.  Should 
you  not  like  to  see  some  of  the  great 
cities  of  Europe  ? " 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  see 
Rome,  and  Venice,  and  Madrid,"  she 
answered. 

"  And  St.  Petersburgh,  would  you  not 
like  to  go  there  ? " 

"  No,  sir ;  it  must  be  so  very  cold." 

"  I'll  try  again,"  thought  the  count. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  death  of  the 
Czar,  Mademoiselle  Mina  ? " 

"  I  heard  he  was  dead  a  moment  ago. 
Somebody  said  so  just  before  you  came 
in.  Was  he  not  very  young  ? " 

"Very  young;  and  he  has  left  no 
brother  to  succeed  him.  Have  you  a 
brother,  Mademoiselle' Wilhelmina  ? " 

She  blushed  very  much,  and  answer- 
ed, "  Ontara  is  my  adopted  brother. 
When  my  mother  was  afraid  Osseo 
would  drag  me  away  from  her,  Ontara 
adopted  me  as  his  sister,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Indians." 

"  I  have  heard  that  they  consider  the 
tie  of  adoption  as  sacred  as  that  of 
blood.  And  so  you  have  no  real  broth- 
ers and  sisters?  Neither  have  I;  but 


when  I  was  young  I  had  a  playfellow 
who  was  very  like  you." 

"  And  did  you  love  her  very  much  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"  And  is  that  little  girl  dead  ? " 

"  I  thought  she  was  for  a  long  time, 
but  I  now  believe  she  is  still  alive. 
But  I  am  afraid  we  shall  never  have 
any  more  happy  hours  together.  We 
can  never  be  children  again.  Our  early 
years,  Mademoiselle  Mina,  are  the  hap- 
piest in  our  lives." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mina,  pensively. 
"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  so  happy 
as  I  was  at  St.  Agathe." 

"  Where  is  St.  Agathe  ? " 

"  On  the  banks  of  the  great  Indian 
River  in  the  Illinois.  It  is  the  most 
beautiful  place  in  the  world." 

"  More  beautiful  than  Paris,  or  Ver- 
sailles, or  St.  Cloud  ?" 

Mina  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  a 
contemptuous  manner,  which  infinitely 
amazed  the  count. 

"  Were  you  born  in  America,  Made- 
moiselle Wilhelmina  ? " 

"Yes;  at  St.  Agathe,  and  I  lived 
there  till  I  was  nine  years  old.  But  it 
is  sold  to  strangers,  and  I  shall  never 
see  it  again." 

"  Did  your  mother  love  it  as  much 
as  you  did  ? " 

"  She  loved  it  very  much,  but  she 
never  talks  of  it  now..  My  father  was 
so  ill  after  the  Natches'  insurrection 
that  she  does  not  wish  to  live  amongst 
Indians.  I  do  not  think  she  herself 
would  mind  it." 

"  Do  your  parents  intend  to  remain 
in  Paris  ? " 

"  O  no ;  my  father  is  trying  to  get 
an  appointment  in  the  West  India 
islands." 

At  that  moment  the  conversation  be- 
tween the  Comte  de  Saxe  and  the] 
young  girl  was  interrupted.  M.  and 
Madame  d'Orgeville  were  going  away. 
Lookers-on  had  wondered  at  the  ear- 
nest manner  in  which  the  count  had 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


195 


peen  conversing  with  her.  She  said 
'good  bye"  to  him  in  a  confiding, 
riendly  manner,  which  seemed,  for 
ome  reason  or  other,  to  affect  him. 
le  kissed  her  hand  with  a  respectful 
ienderness  which  puzzled  the  lady  who 
lad  vainly  tried  to  attract  his  atten- 
ion.  She  wondered  how  he  could  find 
amusement  in  talking  so  long  to  a 
>retty  child.  When  Mina  was  gone, 
le  remained  some  time  in  the  same 
>lace  buried  in  thought.  Did  she  or 
lid  she  not  know  who  her  mother  was  ? 
That  was  what  he  could  not  make  out. 
She  seemed  quite  indifferent  about  the 
leath  of  Peter  the  Second,  but  tad 
ecmed  agitated  when  he  asked  if  she 
lad  a  brother.  He  resolved  to  call  in 
i  few  days  at  Madame  d'Orgeville's, 
nd  to  sift  the  mystery. 

During  the  following  week  Mina  was 
aken  every  day  by  Madame  Maret  to 
he  Bishop  of  Auxerre's  house,  near 
he  church  of  St.  Sulspice.  There  she 
net  Ontara ;  and  it  was  a  curious  thing, 
n  the  midst  of  the  Paris  of  that  day, 
o  see  a  girl  and  a  youth,  both  totally 
macquainted  with  the  world,  in  the 
ttidst  €ff  which  they  had  been  suddenly 
hrown  together,  engaged,  the  one  in 
teaching,  the  other  in  learning,  the 
Christian  religion.  The  group  in  Mon- 
•eigneur  d' Auxerre's  study  would  have 
paade  an  admirable  subject  for  a  pic- 
Aire.  The  gray-haired  bishop  looking 
Kindly  on  the  two  young  creatures  at 
us  feet.  The  dark-haired,  olive-colour- 
id  youth,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fair 
girl,  who,  half  sitting,  half  kneeling, 
ier  hands  clasped  together  and  her 
wul  shining  through  her  face,  translat- 
sd  the  prelate's  instructions,  and  by 
gestures  and  looks,  as  well  as  words, 
transmitted  to  him  their  meaning.  It 
s  a  labour  of  love.  The  bishop  had 
laid  something  to  the  effect  that  Ontara 
vould  prove  hereafter  the  future  teach- 
er of  his  dispersed  countrymen,  and 
ihe  seized  on  the  hope  with  enthusiasm. 


He  would  not,  she  felt  sure,  live  for 
himself  alone.  He  would  carry  to  his 
unhappy  brethren  the  religion  which 
hallows  suffering,  and  can  ennoble  even 
the  condition  of  a  slave.  His  words 
would  one  day  enlighten  the  Children 
of  the  Sun  now  sunk  in  the  depths  of  a 
two-fold  darkness.  High  and  pure 
were  the  teachings  of  her  guileless  lips, 
and  deeply  did  they  sink  into  the  heart 
of  the  young  Indian.  The  aged  man 
could  scarcely  restrain  his  tears  as  he 
looked  on  these  children  of  different 
races,  borji  under  the  same  sky  and  en- 
dowed with  such  kindred  natures. 
"Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and 
sucklings  hast  Thou  ordained  strength," 
he  often  thought,  as  Mina  spoke  and 
Ontara  hearkened  to  her  words. 

Sometimes  he  was  called  out  of  the 
room  on  business,  and  then  the  brother 
and  the  sister  stood  at  the  window 
looking  on  the  Luxembourg  gardens, 
on  the  fountains  and  the  lilacs;  and 
talked  of  the  grand  forests  and  the 
waterfalls,  the  purple  fields  and  fiery 
blossoms  of  their  own  land,  their  hearts 
throbbing  with  the  pleasure  and  the 
pain  of  remembrance.  These  were  On- 
tara's  only  bright  hours  in  the  city  of 
the  white  men.  The  bishop's  house 
appeared  an  oasis  in  what  was  to  him 
a  desert.  The  religious  instructions  he 
received  there,  the  gradual  enlight- 
enment of  his  mind,  the  innocent  affec- 
tion of  his  adopted  sister — the  only  tie 
he  had  in  the  world — gradually  healed 
the  bleeding  wounds  of  his  soul.  In 
the  afternoon,  M.  and  Madame  Maret 
took  him  to  see  all  the  sights  of  the 
capital ;  and  in  the  evening  they  some- 
times conducted  him  to  places  of  pub- 
lic entertainment.  But  amusements 
and  shows  of  any  description  had  not 
the  least  attraction  for  him.  Nothing 
pleased  his  eye  except  the  beauties  of 
nature.  He  was  perfectly  indifferent 
to  art  in  all  its  shapes.  But  his  quick 
intellect  discerned  the  practical  uses  of 


196 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


mechanical  inventions,  and  examined 
with  interest  the  wonders  of  physical 
science.  Many  a  plan  Mina  and  he  laid 
together ;  many  a  castle  they  built  in 
the  wilderness  to  which  their  thoughts 
were  ever  turning.  A  temple  more 
grand  than  Notre  Dame  itself  was  one 
day  to  rise  in  an  American  forest,  and 
many  black  robes  were  to  dwell  there, 
and  a  great  Christian  city  to  rise  around^ 
it.  Mina  and  her  parents  would  come 
and  live  in  the  new  City  of  the  Sun, 
and  the  black  robe  would  join  their 
hands  before  the  Christian  altar,  and 
Ontara  become  the  son  of  the  white 
chief.  Mina  used  always  to  shake  her 
head  when  the  closing  scene  of  this 
vision  was  drawn.  She  knew  now  that 
French  girls  did  not  choose  themselves 
whom  they  would  marry,  and  she  re- 
membered her  mother's  saying  that  she 
must  never  marry  an  Indian.  Then 
she  wondered  if  his  being  a  Christian 
would  make  a  difference.  And  then 
the  thought  that  the  sight  of  one  of  his 
race  made  her  father  shudder,  gave  her 
exquisite  pain.  She  felt  as  if  her  heart 
would  break  if  her  parents  greeted  him 
coldly. 

They  arrived  in  Paris  about  three 
weeks  after  the  eventful  evening  at  the 
H6tel  de  Senac.  Madame  d'Auban 
had  been  taken  ill  the  day  after  her 
daughter's  letter  had  so  abruptly  an- 
nounced to  her  her  son's  death.  She  had 
been  forcedto  stay  some  time  at  Havre, 
and  then  to  travel  by  slow  journeys. 
Her  greatest  desire  now  was,  as  has 
been  said,  to  leave  France,  to  break  off 
all  old  associations,  and  carry  Mina 
away  to  some  place  where  they  might 
begin  life  afresh.  A  vague  disquietude 
stole  over  her  as  she  noticed  on  her 
arrival  the  ever  increasing  loveliness, 
but  very  delicate  appearance,  of  her 
daughter.  The  peculiar  light  in  her  eyes 
was  more  vivid  than  usual ;  there  was  a 
spiritual  beauty  in  her  face  which  is  sel- 
dom seen  in  persons  of  strong  health : — 


The  body  tasked,  the  fine  mind  overwrought, 
With  something  faint  and  fragile  in  the  whole, 
As  though  'twere  but  a  lamp  to  hold  a  soul. 
Mrs.  Norton. 

That  night,  bending  over  her  bed,  her 
mother  whispered  to  her,  "  My  beloved 
child,  henceforth  pray  for  the  repose 
of  your  brother's  soul ;  God  has  taken 
him  out  of  this  world  .  .  ."  Tears 
choked  her  utterance. 

Mina  threw  her  arms  around  her 
neck  and  murmured,  "  O  mother,  may 
he  rest  in  peace."  Thoughts  of  that 
buried  brother  often  haunted  Mina  in 
future  years.  Her  father  was  right 
wh$n  he  had  wished  her  not  to  know 
any  thing  of  the  secret  which  was  never 
to  be  actually  disclosed  to  her.  Mys- 
teries always  throw  a  shade  over  the 
sunny  days  of  youth. 

Mina  had  sat  between  her  parents  on 
the  evening  of  their  arrival,  gazing  first 
on  the  one  and  then  on  the  other  with 
the  deepest  tenderness.  She  told  them 
Ontara  had  been  baptized  that  morn- 
ing. It  was  in  the  Church  of  St.  Sul- 
spice  that  the  ceremony  had  taken 
place.  The  world  had  crowded  to 
witness  a  novel  sight ;  the  cacred  build- 
ing was  filled  with  courtiers  and  wo- 
men of  fashion.  Spy-glasses  were 
raised,  whispers  exchanged,  questions 
asked  and  answered  round  Mina  d'Au- 
ban, but  she  heeded  them  not.  "  Her 
eyes  were  with  her  heart,"  and  both 
were  bent  on  the  youth  for  whom  she 
had  so  long  and  so  ardently  prayed. 
She  was  kneeling  near  the  pulpit  from 
which  the  Bishop  of  Auxerre  had  been 
preaching,  and  was  so  absorbed  in  her 
devotions  that,  after  the  whole  ceremony 
was  over,  she  did  not  notice  that  Mad- 
ame d'Orgeville  had  gone  into  the  sa- 
cristy to  speak  to  him,  and  that  every 
one  had  left  the  church  except  one  lady, 
who  came  up  to  her  and  touched  her 
on  the  shoulder.  She  raised  her  head 
and  recognized  Mademoiselle  Gaultier, 
whose  eyes  were,  like  her  own,  full  of 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


197 


They  had    been  both  deeply 
in  the  midst  of  that  careless 
>wd.  Wide  apart  as  earth  and  heaven 
the  state  of  their  souls  at  this 
but  both  had  felt  what  others 
not  felt.     There  was  something  in 
|  common  between  them,  one  was  strug- 
gling out  of  the  depths,  the  other  going 
(forward  in    the  brightness    of    early 
lorning,  but  both  following  from  afar 

The  banner  with  a  strange  device, 

Excelsior. 

"Pray  for   me,"    said  the    actress, 

Unending  unconsciously  her  knee  as  she 

ipproached  the  young  girl,  and  then 

{disappearing  before  the  latter  had  had 

time  to  recover  her  surprise. 

People  often  think  themselves  better 
khan  they  are,  but  it  also  sometimes 
ippens  that  they  are  taken  by  surprise 
;he  other  way.    Madame  d'Auban  had 
struggling    ever    since  she  had 
of  Ontara's  arrival  in  Paris,  to 
iquer  her  involuntary  coldness  tow- 
him.     She  was  angry  with  herself 
>r  her  ingratitude,  and  imagination 
ing  these  misgivings  she  dread- 
showing  what  she   had  persuaded 
Of  she  felt.    When  Mina  spoke  of 
there  was  something  nervous  and 
>nstrained  in  her  manner,  which  in- 
|  creased  her  daughter's  sensitive  appre- 
insions.    But  when,  on  the  following 
ty,  the  young  Indian  suddenly  enter- 
fed  the  room,  all  feelings  of  coldness 
I  vanished  at  once  from  her  mind.     The 
of  her  captivity  rose  again  before 
but  with  them  the  vivid  remem- 
ice  of  what  that  youth  had  done 
her  child  and  herself,  and  she  clasp- 
\ed  him  to  her  heart  with  a  tenderness 
fhtened  by  the  reaction  which  had 
place  in  her  feelings.    It  was 
time  before  she  could  master  her 

Mina's  visits  to  the  bishop  contin- 
but  now  her  father  went  with  her. 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  Indian 
iguage  enabled  him  to  assume  the 


task  she  had  hitherto  performed,  and 
M.  d'Auxerre  in  a  few  days  confided 
to  him  the  care  of  Ontara's  instruction. 
He  came  every  night  to  their  lodgings, 
studied  with  Colonel  d'Auban,  and 
read  with  Mina.  These  were  his  hap- 
py hours.  He  began  to  understand  the 
enjoyment  of  domestic  life— the  bless- 
ings of  the  Christian  idea  of  home. 
His  affection  for  Mina  was  unbounded. 
One  day  he  said  to  her : — 

"  You  are  all  things  in  one  to  me : 
my  angel,  for  you  pray  for  me;  my 
teacher,  for  you  instruct  me ;  my  sister, 
for  you  love  me ;  my  child,  for  I  once 
carried  you  in  my  arms ;  and  one  day, 
when  I  have  learnt  all  the  white  men 
can  teach,  you  will  be  my  wife,  and 
we  shall  live  in  our  own  land  in  a  pal- 
ace covered  with  roses,  on  the  shores 
of  the  beautiful  river." 

Mina  did  not  believe  in  this  palace 
in  the  new  world,  but  she  left  off  say- 
ing so  when  she  saw  it  vexed  Ontara ; 
and  she  was  happy  to  see  her  parents 
so  kind  to  him.  She  was  no  longer 
anxious  to  leave  Paris.  There  did  not 
seem  any  immediate  prospect  of  it. 
Solicitation  is  weary  work ;  day  after 
day  d'Auban  was  disappointed  of  the 
answer  he  was  expecting.  Two  out  of 
the  three  months,  at  the  end  of  which 
his  wife  had  promised  to  communicate 
with  the  Comte  de  Saxe,  had  already 
elapsed.  Mina  related  to  her  the  con- 
versation she  had  had  with  him  at  Mad- 
ame de  Senac's.  Sometimes  she  thought 
of  disclosing  to  him  her  secret,  and  ob- 
taining his  assistance  in  forwarding 
her  husband's  appointment;  but  as 
soon  as  the  idea  took  the  form  of  a  res- 
olution, it  caused  her  indescribable  ap- 
prehension. It  had  always  been  in  her 
nature  to  meet  with  courage  inevitable 
evils,  but  decisions  frightened  her. 
She  intensely  wished  to  leave  France, 
and  only  to  send  him  her  promised 
letter  when  the  sea  would  be  rolling 
between  them.  Every  morning  she 


198 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


awoke  with  the  hope  that  that  day 
would  be  the  last  of  tedious  sus- 
pense. 

One  evening  at  dusk,  as  d'Auban  was 
walking  up  the  stairs  of  the  house  where 
they  lodged,  he  met  somebody  coming 
down,  who  took  off  his  hat  and  passed 
on.  He  could  not  see  who  it  was,  but 
his  servant  Antoine,  who  was  in  the 
ante-room  of  their  apartments,  told  him 
it  was  the  German,  Reinhart.  He  had 
been  talking,  he  said,  to  the  people  of 
the  house,  and  he  had  seen  him  go  in 
and  out  two  or  three  times.  D'Auban 
was  much  disturbed  at  this  intelligence. 
He  had  -heard,  since  he  was  in  Paris, 
that  this  man  was  a  spy,  and  in  the  pay 
of  whatever  governments  chose  to  em- 
ploy him.  He  did  not  at  all  like  his 
having  traced  them.  Whether  he  was 
still  seeking  evidence  about  the  jewels, 
or  was  on  the  scent  of  a  still  more  im- 
portant discovery,  in  both  cases  he 
dreaded  the  consequences,  and  began 
to  consider  if  it  would  not  be  desirable 
to  leave  Paris  at  once,  or  at  least  to 
send  his  wife  to  some  place  where  she 
would  be  out  of  this  man's  way.  One 
measure  of  prudence  he  thought  it  ne- 
cessary to  suggest  to  her :  this  was  to 
pack  up  and  hide  the  jewels  she  still 


"  I  have  nothing  now  of  any  value," 
she  said.  "  Perhaps  we  had  better  sell 
what  there  is.  .  .  ." 

"  On  no  account,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  That  would  be  most  imprudent.  But, 
my  dearest,  what  do  you  mean  by  noth- 
ing of  value?  Where  is  the  locket, 
with  the  czar's  picture  ? " 

She  smiled,  and  said,  "  I  did  not  mean 
to  tell  you,  but  as  you  ask  about  it,  I 
suppose  you  must  needs  be  informed 
that  I  parted  with  the  diamonds  last 
September,  when  I  wanted  money  to 
pay  the  doctor  and  our  lodgings  in  the 
Rue  du  Louvre.  Part  of  that  sum  I 
still  have  in  bank  notes.  What  is  the 
matter?"  she  asked,  alarmed  at  ob- 


serving a  look  of  annoyance  in  her 
husband's  face. 

"  Oh,  my  dearest  love,"  he  said,  "  why 
did  you  not  speak  to  me  before  you  I 
sold  that  locket  ? " 

"  I  did  not  sell  the  picture,  Henri,  • 
only  the  diamonds.     You  were  ill,  and 
I  was  determined  you  should  not  be 
troubled  about  money  matters." 

"  I  know.  I  see  how  it  was.  You 
are  an  angel  of  goodness.  But  whom 
did  you  sell  them  to  ? "  d'Auban  asked, 
trying  not  to  seem  anxious. 

"  To  a  dealer  in  diamonds,  whose 
direction  I  got  from  M.  Lenoir,  Wis- 
bach,  a  German." 

"  Good  heavens !  an  agent  of  the 
Russian  Embassy.  O,  my  own  precious 
one,  you  who  thought  to  save  me  anx- 
iety !  Well,  but  never  mind.  Do  not 
be  unhappy.  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  all 
right." 

"  But  what  do  you  fear,  Henri?" 

"  Why,  my  dearest,  you  know  that 
years  ago  in  America  there  were  inqui- 
ries made  and  reports  circulated  about 
your  jewels  having  been  stolen.  And 
if  these  diamonds  should  be  recognized 
and  traced  to  you,  no  explanation  can 
be  offered  but  the  one.  .  ." 

"  O,  but  the  picture  was  not  seen. 
Only  the  setting ;  only  the  locket.  .  ." 

"  But,  my  dear  heart,  this  man  Wis- 
bach  has  for  years  and  years  executed 
all  the  orders  for  jewellery  at  the  Im- 
perial Court.  I  should  not  be  surprised 
if  he  had  made  that  locket  himself. 
Do  not  be  frightened.  I  only  want  you 
to  see  the  necessity  of  prudence.  If 
you  will  put  the  picture  and  the  trink- 
ets together,  and  seal  them  up  in  a  box> 
I  will  take  the  parcel  to  M.  Maret,  who 
will,  I  know,  take  charge  of  it  for  me, 
without. inquiring  as  to  its  contents." 

Madame  d'Auban,  who  had  now  be- 
come a  little  nervous,  went  to  fetch  a 
box  out  of  her  bedroom.  She  took  out 
of  it  the  miniature,  and  a  few  chains 
and  broaches,  and  was  just  placing  them 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


lit!) 


a  small  case,  whilst  her  husband  was 
ighting  a  candle,  and  looking  for  seal- 
ng-wax,  when  they  were  startled  by  a 
Bound  of  steps  on  the  stairs.  She  had 
scarcely  time  to  thrust  back  all  the 
things  into  the  large  box,  before  two 
men  entered,and  announcing  themselves 
as  police  agents,  arrested  them  both. 
One  of  them  instantly  began  searching 
the  box  and  the  drawers  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room.  The  picture  and  the  trinkets 
were  of  course  discovered,  and  one  of 
the  men  nodded  to  the  other,  and  said, 
That's  it."  D'Auban  was  confounded 
at  the  strangeness  of  their  position. 
Sis  usual  coolness  and  presence  of  mind 
almost  forsook  him  in  this  complicated 
embarrassment.  Under  the  weight  of 
so  plausible  an  accusation  and  such 
overwhelming  evidence,  the  only  de- 
fence that  could  be  set  up  would  of 
necessity  appear  an  absurd  invention,  a 
preposterous  lie.  It  seemed  to  him 
ncredible  at  that  moment  that  he  had 
not  more  fully  realized  the  danger 
aanging  over  them  from  the  possession 
of  those  things.  He  felt  stunned  and 
aewildered.  There  was  no  time  to 
confer  with  his  wife  on  the  steps  they 
should  take,  or  the  answers  they  should 
give  when  separately  examined,  which 
tie  knew  must  follow.  Would  even  his 
own  friends  believe  his  story?  They 
tiad  known  him  long  and  well,  but  her 
scarcely  at  all.  Sooner  than  give  credit 
to  so  improbable  a  story,  they  might 
deem  that  he  had  been  taken  in  by 
an  impostor.  These  thoughts  passed 
through  his  mind  with  the  quickness 
of  lightning,  for  the  whole  scene  did 
not  last  more  than  two  or  three  minutes. 
He  asked  leave  to  write  a  few  words  to 
M.  d'Orgeville.  This  was  refused,  with 
a  hint  that  such  a  note  might  convey 
instructions  for  removing  other  stolen 
property.  They  scarcely  allowed  Mad- 
ame d'Auban  time  to  put  up  a  change 
of  clothes,  and  to  kiss  her  daughter. 
She  was  taken  too  much  by  surprise  to 


be  able  to  collect  her  thoughts.  She 
could  only  strain  her  to  her  breast 
D'Auban  called  Antoine,  who  was  stand- 
ing pale  and  trembling  at  the  door,  and 
said,  "  Take  care  of  her.  Take  her  to 
the  Hotel  d'Orgeville.  Tell  them  that 
through  some  extraordinary  mistake 
we  are  accused  of  a  crime,  and  thrown 
into  prison." 

"No  more  talking,  if  you  please," 
said  one  of  the  police  agents,  and  hur- 
ried them  down  stairs.  When  Madame 
d'Auban  had  reached  the  last  step  she 
turned  round  to  look  at  her  daughter, 
who  was  following  her  in  silence ;  too 
agitated  to  speak,  too  terrified  to  weep. 

"  Mina  1 "  she  cried,  as  the  carriage- 
door  closed  upon  her.  What  more  she 
said  the  young  girl  could  not  hear. 
When  it  had  disappeared  she  slowly 
went  up  stairs  again.  Antoine  was 
frightened  at  her  still  composed  look. 

"  Ah  !  Mademoiselle  Mina,"  he  cried, 
"  for  God's  sake  do  not  look  so.  You 
make  my  heart  ache.  But  I  am  sure  it 
is  no  wonder.  To  see  monsieur  and 
madame  go  off  in  such  company,  and 
to  such  a  place,  is  enough  to  upset  one. 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  country,  that  I 
am.  Let  me  get  you  some  wine  and 
water,  mademoiselle,  you  are  nearly 
fainting?" 

"  No,  Antoine ;  I  am  thinking,"  an- 
swered the  child,  with  her  head  resting 
on  her  hands,  and  an  expression  of 
intense  thoughtfulness  on  her  brow. 
The  colour  gradually  returned  to  her 
cheeks,  and  she  breathed  a  deep  sigh. 
When  Antoine  had  brought  her  the 
wine  and  water,  she  swallowed  it,  and 
then  said : 

"  Where  are  they  gone,  Antoine  ?  I 
mean  to  what  prison  ? " 

The  utterance  of  that  word  loosened 
the  springs  of  sorrow,  and  Mina  burst 
into  tears.  Then  poor  old  Antoine  was 
as  anxious  to  stop  her  from  crying,  as 
he  had  been  before  that  she  did  not 
cry. 


200 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"  Where— where  ? "  she  sobbed,  whilst 
he  stroked  her  hand,  and  kissed  it. 

"  To  the  Conciergerie,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice ;  and  then  he  added,  "  It  is 
all  a  great  mistake.  They  will  come 
back  very  soon.  But  we  must  do  as 
your  papa  said,  and  go  to  the  Hotel 
d'Orgeville." 

"  No,  Antoine,  I  ain  not  going  there ; 
not  yet,  I  mean." 

"  And  where  are  you  then  going,  mad- 
emoiselle ? " 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  Comte  de 
Saxe  lives  ? " 

"No,  mademoiselle;  but  perhaps  I 
can  find  out.  But  why  do  you  want  to 
know  ? " 

"  Because  I  must  see  him  immediate- 
ly— immediately,  Antoine." 

Antoine  shook  his  head.  "  Monsieur 
said  I  was  to  take  you  to  the  Hotel 
d'Orgeville." 

"  I  won't  go  there  till  I  have  seen  the 
Comte  de  Saxe.  So  it  is  no  use  asking 
me,  Antoine.  Come  with  me,  and  we 
will  go  and  find  out  where  he  lives." 

Antoine  was  so  accustomed  to  do 
whatever  Mademoiselle  Mina  wished, 
and  so  agitated  with  the  scene  he  had 
witnessed,  that  he  was  really  more  in 
need  of  guidance  than  she  was.  So 
he  passively  submitted  ;  and  when  she 
had  put  on  her  hat  and  shawl  he  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  street.  She  then 
stopped,  and  asked  him,  "  Bo  you  think 
M.  Drouin,  the  bookseller,  will  know 
where  M.  de  Saxe  lives  ? " 

"  Most  likely  he  may,"  Antoine  an- 
swered, and  they  walked  there. 

MT  Drouin's  shop  was  a  large  dark 
warehouse  in  the  Rue  St.  Sulspice, 
where  piles  of  volumes  were  ranged 
in  far-stretching  recesses  and  appar- 
ently inaccessible  shelves.  Mina  tim- 
idly approached  the  counter.  A  lady 
was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  en- 
trance door,  and  a  pretty  little  boy  of 
six  or  seven  years  of  age  standing  by 
her.  She  was  choosing  a  book  for  him. 


"  I  don't  want  a  book,"  said  the 
child  ;  "  I  want  you  to  stay  with  me." 

"  Why,  my  good  child,"  answered  the 
lady,  in  a  voice  Mina  remembered  to 
having  heard  before,  "  I  can't  stay  where 
I  am  and  be  good,  and  if  people  are  not 
good  they  don't  go  to  heaven ;  and  you 
and  I,  Anselm,  want  to  meet  there  some 
day." 

"I  think  you  are  very  good,"  an- 
swered the  boy,  in  an  aggrieved  tone, 
"  you  give  me  every  thing  I  want." 

At  that  moment,  the  lady  heard  Mina 
ask  the  shopman  if  he  could  tell  her 
where  the  Comte  de  Saxe  lived.  She 
turned  round  and  their  eyes  met. 
Mademoiselle  Gaultier  recognized  the 
young  girl  whose  prayers  she  had  asked 
in  the  Church  of  St.  Etienne  du  Mont ; 
she  made  way  for  her  with  a  courteous 
smile. 

"  At  the  Hotel  de  Saxe,  Rue  du  Palais 
Royal,"  the  shopman  answered. 

"  Is  it  far  from  here  ? "  Mina  anxious- 
ly inquired,  and  when  the  man  an- 
swered, "pretty  well,"  Mademoiselle 
Gaultier  caught  the  sound  of  a  little 
tremulous  sigh. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  in  a  kind 
manner,  to  the  young  girl,  "  but  do  you 
want  to  see  the  Comte  de  Saxe  ?  " 

"  O,  yes ;  very,  very  much,"  answered 
Mina,  "  I  must  see  him  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

"Why  must  you  see  him?"  said 
Mademoiselle  Gaultier,  in  a  good- 
humoured  off-hand  manner. 

"  Because  he  is  the  only  person  who 
can  help  me." 

Mademoiselle  Gaultier  felt  in  her 
pocket  for  her  purse.  "  Excuse  me,  my 
dear,  but  is  it  any  thing  about  which 
money  can  be  of  use  ? " 

"  No,  no,  thank  you,  it  would  not  do 
any  good."  Mina  turned  away  and  was 
hurrying  out  of  the  shop. 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  cried  Mademoi- 
selle Gaultier,  struck  with  the  expres- 
sion of  her  beautiful  face.  "If  it  is 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


201 


deed  important  that  you  should  see 

e  Comte  de  Saxe  without  delay,  I  can 
e  you  to  my  house,  where  he  dines  to- 
day. By  the  time  you  get  to  his  hotel 
will  have  left  it." 

She  pointed  to  her  carriage  and  said, 
«  Get  in." 

Mina  looked  at  Antoine,  who  was 
standing  by  her.  "I  must  see  the 
Comte  de  Saxe,  Antoine." 

"  Then  get  in,"  repeated  Mademoi- 
selle Gaultier. 

"  Not  without  me,"  said  the  old  man, 
resolutely. 

"  Well,  sit  on  the  box  then,  and  tell 
the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Rue  de  la 
Michaudiere." 

The  little  boy  got  in  also,  and  they 
drove  off.  The  child  began  to  cry  bit- 
terly. 

"Come,  come,  Anselm.  This  will 
never  do.  Men  do  not  cry." 

"  But  little  boys  do,  and  I  must  cry  if 
you  go  away." 

"Nonsense,  I  never  told  you  I  was 
going  away.  But  you  must  go  home  to 
your  father,  and  he  will  send  you  to  a 
good  school,  where  you  will  have  plenty 
of  little  boys  to  play  with." 

The  child  threw  his  arms  round  her 
neck. 

"  There  now,"  she  said,  when  the 
carriage  stopped,  "kiss  me,  and  get 
out." 

She  watched  him  into  the  house,  and 
then  said,  as  if  speaking  to  herself 
rather  than  to  Mina,  "  Ah,  that  comes 
of  doing  a  good  action ;  one  never 
knows  what  the  end  of  it  will  be. 
I  took  that  child  because  it  was  moth- 
erless, and  his  father  was  too  poor 
to  keep  him,  and  made  a  pet  of  it 
when  it  was  little,  as  if  he  had  been 
a  puppy  or  a  kitten.  But  when  the 
creature  began  to  speak  and  to  say  its 
prayers,  and  to  ask  me  questions  about 
the  good  God,  I  did  not  like  it." 

"  Why  not  ? "  said  Mina,  looking  at 
her  with  astonishment. 


"No,  what  could  a  person  who 
never  prayed  herself  say  to  a  child 
like  that?" 

"  Do  you  not  pray  ?  I  am  sure  you 
did  the  day  Ontara  was  baptized.  Do 
not  you  thank  God  for  having  made 
you  so  beautiful,  and  so  strong  too?" 
Mina  added,  remembering  the  scene  in 
the  Tuileries  Gardens. 

It  had  never  yet  occurred  to  Made- 
moiselle Gaultier  to  thank  God  for  her 
strength,  but,  some  years  afterwards, 
she  remembered  Mina's  words  whilst 
carrying  an  aged  woman  out  of  a  house 
that  was  on  fire.  She  looked  fixedly 
at  her  now,  and  then  murmured,  "  The 
rest  of  my  life  will  be  too  short  to 
thank  Him,  if.  .  .  ."  there  she  stopped, 
and  turning  away,  did  not  speak  again 
till  they  reached  her  house  in  the  Rue 
St.  Maur. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  luxury 
displayed  in  this  abode.  Lovely  pic- 
tures covered  the  walls,  knick-knacks 
of  every  sort  adorned  every  corner  of 
it.  Flowers  in  profusion,  and  little 
mimic  fountains  throwing  up  scented 
waters,  perfumed  the  hall,  and  gave 
each  room  an  air  de  fete.  Mademoi- 
selle Gaultier  conducted  Mina  into  a 
small  boudoir  within  a  dining  room, 
where  a  table,  ornamented  with  a  gild- 
ed plateau  and  magnificent  bouquets, 
was  laid  for  twenty  guests.  In  an  ad- 
joining drawing-room  several  gentle- 
men and  ladies  were  already  assembled, 
who  greeted  its  mistress  in  the  gayest 
manner.  One  of  these  guests  was  the 
Comte  de  Saxe.  When  he  saw  Mina 
with  Mademoiselle  Gaultier  he  started 
back  amazed,  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  rushed  after  them  into  the  bou- 
doir. 

Before  any  one  else  had  time  to 
speak,  Mina  cried  out  the  instant  she 
saw  him,  "Oh,  M.  de  Saxe,  save  my 
mother." 

"  Will  you  leave  us  a  moment  ?  "  said 
the  count  to  Mademoiselle  Gaultier. 


202 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


She  turned  round  and  saw  that  An- 
toine  had  made  good  his  entrance,  and 
was  watching  his  young  mistress  like 
a  faithful  dog.  "  Very  well,"  she  said, 
and  shut  the  door  upon  them. 

"  Now,  my  child,"  said  the  count,  in 
German,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  What 
of  your  mother  ? " 

"She  is  in  prison,  and  my  father 
also,"  cried  Mina,  wringing  her  hands. 

"In  prison.  Good  God!  Why? 
Where  ?  For  debt  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Mina,  her  cheeks  as 
red  as  fire,  and  her  lip  quivering.  "For 
stealing  diamonds  !  They  steal ! " 

"  Diamonds  !  "  said  the  count. 

"  Yes,  diamonds  mamma  has  had  a 
long  time,  as  long  as  I  can  remember. 
She  sold  them  when  papa  was  so  ill, 
and  she  wanted  money.'  They  were 
round  a  picture  of  a  gentleman  in  uni- 
form, which  she  sometimes  showed  me 
when  I  was  little.  The  men  who  took 
papa  and  mamma  to  prison  found  this 
picture,  and  said  it  was  the  proof  they 
wanted." 

"Ah  !  I  think  I  understand,"  ejacu- 
lated the  count.  "Did  your  father 
know  of  this  picture  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  he  did  not  know  till  to- 
day, just  before  these  men  came,  that 
mamma  had  sold  the  diamonds.  He 
seemed  sorry  when  she  told  him.  Oh, 
M.  de  Saxe,  you  told  mamma  that  if 
she  ever  wanted  a  devoted  heart  and  a 
strong  arm  to  defend  her,  she  was  to 
think  of  you.  Will  you  help  her  now, 
and  my  father  also  ? " 

"  I  must  go  to  the  king,  there  is  no 
other  way.  What  prison  is  it  ? " 

"The  Conciergerie,"  said  Antoine, 
stepping  forward. 

"  Do  you  know  at  whose  instance  M. 
and  Madame  d'Auban  have  been  arrest- 
ed?" 

"  The  huissiers  said  it  was  at  the  re- 
quest of  the  Russian  ambassador." 

"  Confound  him  !  Ah  !  I  must  be- 
gin by  making  sure  of  that  point.  Do 


you  know  to  whom  your  mother  sold 
the  diamonds,  Mdlle.  Mina  ? " 

"  To  a  man  named  Wisbach,  in  the 
Rue  de  1'Ecu." 

"  I  know  him ;  a  German  jeweller." 

"  Will  the  king  let  them  out  of  pris- 
on, M.  de  Saxe  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  my  sweet  child.  I  will 
do  every  thing  I  can  to  help  you.  In 
the  mean  time,  in  whose  care  do  you  re- 
main ? " 

"His,"  said  Mina,  pointing  to  the 
old  servant ;  "  our  dear,  good  Antoine. 
My  father  said  I  was  to  go  to  the  Ho- 
tel d'Orgeville,  and  say  that  through 
some  mistake  they  had  been  arrested, 
but—" 

"  But  you  had  much  better  not  do  so 
now,  Mdlle.  Mina.  Go  with  this  good 
man,  wherever  you  live.  Where  is  it 
by  the  way  ? " 

"  30,  Rue  des  Saints  Peres." 

"  Well  go  there,  and  if  any  one  calls, 
let  him  answer  that  your  parents  are 
out." 

"  And  if  Ontara  comes  ? " 

"  Is  that  the  Natches  prince  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  my  adopted  brother." 

"Would  he  be  discreet?" 

"  An  Indian  would  die  rather  than 
betray  a  secret." 

"Well,  then,  you  may  see  him,  my 
little  princess." 

The  count  watched  to  see  if  that  ap- 
pellation made  any  impression  on  Mina ; 
but  seeing  it  did  not,  he  went  on — 

"  Now  do  not  weep,  do  not  be  anx- 
ious, sweet  Wilhelmina.  The  Comte  de 
Saxe  would  sooner  die  than  evil  should 
befall  your  mother." 

"  Was  she  the  little  girl  you  loved  so 
much  ? "  Mina  asked. 

"  She  was,"  the  count  answered,  with 
emotion ;  "  and  she  is  the  mother  of  a 
not  very  little  girl,  whom  I  am  begin- 
ning to  love  also  very  much." 

"  And  I  shall  love  you  very  dearly, 
if  you  get  papa  and  mamma  out  of 
prison." 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


203 


Meantime  dinner  was  begun  in  the 
next  room,  and  the  noise  of  laughing 
and  talking  reached  their  ears.  The 
Comte  de  Saxe  opened  the  door  and 
made  his  excuses  to  Mademoiselle  Gaul- 
tier.  He  said  that  pressing  business 
obliged  him  to  forego  her  hospitality. 

"  I  conclude,"  he  added,  "  that  you 
will  have  the  kindness  to  send  this 
young  lady  home  ? " 

"I  will  see  her  home  myself,"  an- 
swered Mademoiselle  Gaultier,  rising 
from  the  table. 

"  Good  bye,  M.  de  Saxe,"  she  added, 
and  her  voice  faltered  again,  as  it  had 
done  in  the  carriage,  and  under  her 
rouge  her  cheeks  turned  deadly  pale. 

"  Come,  my  dear,  eat  something  be- 
fore you  go,"  she  said  to  Mina. 

"  No,  thank  you,  dear  lady ;  I  could 
not  eat.  I  will  drink  some  water,  if 
you  please." 

Mademoiselle  Gaultier  poured  out 
some  for  her,  and  a  glass  of  wine  for 
herself.  Her  hand  trembled  so  much 
that  she  spilt  it.  She  rose,  sat  down 
again,  and  said  to  her  guests ; 

"  I  know  you  will  excuse  my  treating 
you  with  so  little  ceremony.  I  must 
go,  or  I  would  not  leave  you." 

Her  eyes  wandered  round  the  table  1 
she  seemed  to  be  looking  at  each  of  her 
friends  in  turn — one  of  them  was  stip- 
ulating that  she  should  not  be  longer 
away  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  an- 
other laughingly  declaring  they  would 
make  themselves  very  happy  in  her 
absence  ;  others  protesting  against  be- 
ing deprived  of  her  society  even  for 
five  minutes.  Once  again  she  got  up, 
took  Mina  by  the  hand,  and  went  to 
the  door.  She  stood  there  an  instant, 
looking  at  the  table  she  had  left,  at  the 
pictures,  at  the  furniture,  with  a  dreamy 
expression.  Her  guests  thought  she 
was  gone,  and  had  begun  again  to  talk 
and  to  laugh  amongst  themselves. 

"  Come,"  she  said  to  Mina,  who  was 
struck  by  the  strangeness  of  her  man- 


ner. They  went  downstairs  and  got 
into  the  carriage,  which  had  been  all 
this  time  waiting  at  the  door.  The 
horses  were  impatient  and  restive. 
The  coachman  whipped  them,  and 
they  plunged.  Mademoiselle  Gaulti<  r 
sprang  out  again,  pulling  Mina  with 
her  into  the  house.  She  sank  on  a 
chair  in  the  hall,  and  gave  a  sort  of 
half  cry,  half  groan,  which  rang 
through  the  house.  The  company  in 
the  dining-room  heard  it,  and  wondered 
what  it  was.  They  little  guessed  whence 
it  proceeded. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  murmured.  "  My 
God!  I  cannot  go;  the  effort  is  too 
great." 

A  singular  instinct  seemed  to  inspire 
Mina  at  that  moment.  She  guessed 
there  was  a  struggle  between  right  and 
wrong  in  that  woman's  heart.  With- 
out knowing  what  she  was  leaving,  or 
where  she  was  going,  she  seized  her 
hand,  and  cried — 

"  Come,  come ;  Oh,  do  come  away  1 " 

There  are  moments  when  the  whole 
of  a  person's  existence — when  even 
their  eternal  destiny — seems  to  hang 
on  an  apparently  casual  circumstance ; 
when  good  and  bad  angels  are  watch- 
ing the  upshot.  Mina's  own  heart  was 
overcharged  with  sor/ow,  and  she 
longed  to  get  away  from  the  sound 
of  voices  and  laughter  which  reached 
them  where  they  sat.  She  clung  to 
Mdlle.  Gaultier,  and  again  said :  "  Come 
now,  or  you  will  never  come."  She  did 
not  know  the  strength  of  her  own 
words.  They  fell  on  the  actress's  ear 
with  prophetic  force.  Madame  de 
Stael  says,  that  the  most  mournful  and 
forcible  expression  in  our  language  "  is 
no  more."  Perhaps  the  words  "now 
or  never,"  have  a  still  more  thrilling 
power.  They  have  been  the  war-cry 
of  many  a  struggle — the  signal  of  many 
a  victory. 

Once  again  Mdlle.  Gaultier  got  into 
the  carriage  with  Mina,  and  they  drove 


204 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


to  the  Rue  des  Saints  Peres.  She  wept 
bitterly.  It  was  odd,  perhaps,  that  she 
should  give  thus  a  free  vent  to  her  feel- 
ings before  a  child  and  stranger,  but 
she  was  a  very  singular  person  ;  a  great 
impulsiveness — a  careless  frankness — 
had  always  marked  her  character. 

"  I  am  very  glad  I  met  you,  my  dear," 
she  said  to  her  young  companion,  who 
was  trying  to  thank  her.  "You  have 
done  more  for  me  to-day  than  you  can 
now,  or  than  you  will  perhaps  ever 
understand.  It  was  just  what  I  wanted 
to  help  me  through  the  operation  I  am 
undergoing." 

"  What  operation,  dear  lady  ? " 

"  An  operation  you  may  have  read 
of  in  the  Gospel,  my  dear.  Cutting 
off  the  right  hand,  and  plucking  out 
the  right  eye,  rather  than  walking  into 
hell  with  them.  May  your  sweet  eyes 
and  your  little  innocent  feet  never  need 
plucking  out  and  cutting  off !  It  hurts, 
I  can  tell  you  !  " 

"  I  would  cut  off  my  hand,  and  have 
my  eyes  burnt  out,  if  that  would  make 
all  my  own  people  Christians,"  Mina 
answered,  eagerly. 

"  I  do  not  know  who  are  your  people, 
little  one ;  but  I  have  heard  of  innocent 
souls,  angels  in  human  form,  glad  to 
suffer  for  the  guilty  and  the  perishing, 
and  I  think  you  may  be  one  of  them 
.  .  .  .  I,  too,  had  such  thoughts 
when  I  was  your  age  .  .  .  ." 

"  And  why  did  you  let  them  go  ? " 
Mina  said.  "  I  felt  sure  you  were  good 
the  first  day  I  saw  you." 

"What  could  make  you  think  so, 
dear  child  ? " 

"  You  looked  good,  though  you  did 
push  the  German  lady  into  the  mud." 

The  mention  of  this  incident  caused 
a  revulsion  in  Mademoiselle  Gaultier's 
nervous  system.  She  burst  into  an 
hysterical  fit  of  laughter.  "What  a 
wretch  I  have  been,"  she  exclaimed ; 
and  then,  after  a  pause,  said,  "  I  ought 
to  have  been  good,  but  I  was  not  suf- 


fered to  be  so.  An  orphan  and  a  de- 
pendent, I  prayed  for  a  bare  pittance  to 
keep  me  off  the  stage.  But  my  rela- 
tives would  not  hearken  to  my  plead- 
ings. They  said  I  had  beauty  and  wit, 
and  must  shift  for  myself.  I  have  done 
so,  God  knows  how  ! " 

"  But  you  can,  you  will  be  good  now  ?  " 
The  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of 
Mina's  lodgings.  She  threw  her  arms 
round  Mademoiselle  Gaultier's  neck, 
and  said  again,  as  she  pressed  her  lips 
to  her  cheeks, ' '  You  will  be  good  now  ?  " 
It  was  like  the  whisper  of  an  angel. 
Another  voice  had  baen  urging,  "Re- 
turn to  your  pleasant  home — to  your 
gay  friends — your  luxurious  life.  You 
never  can  fast,  obey,  and  pray  for  the 
rest  of  your  life."  It  was  the  decisive 
hour — on  the  order  then  given  to  drive 
to  one  place  or  the  other — on  these 
few  words  the  future  turned.  She  bade 
the  coachman  go  to  the  convent  of  the 
Anticailles.  In  after  years,  when  she 
could  afford  to  look  back  and  write, 
with  the  gaiety  of  a  grateful  heart,  an 
account  of  that  terrible  struggle,  she 
spoke  of  the  rude  pallet  on  which  she 
slept  that  night,  of  the  bits  of  cold 
stewed  carp  she  ate  for  supper,  and  said 
it  was  the  sweetest  sleep,  and  the  best 
meal,  she  had  enjoyed  for  many  a  long 
year. 

Two  years  later,  the  Parisian  world 
flocked  to  the  Carmelite  convent  of  the 
Rue  St.  Jacques — the  same  where  Louise 
de  la  Valliere  had  fled  half  a  century 
before — to  see  one  of  the  first  actresses 
of  the  French  stage,  the  witty,  the  hand- 
some Mademoiselle  Gaultier,  put  on  St. 
Theresa's  habit,  and  renounce  for  ever 
the  world  which  had  so  long  burnt 
unholy  incense  at  her  feet.  She  retain- 
ed in  the  cloister  the  eager  spirit,  the 
indomitable  gaiety,  the  intellectual 
gifts,  with  which  she  had  been  so  rarely 
endowed.  She  spoke  from  behind  the 
grate  with  the  eloquence  of  former 
days,  only  the  subject-matter  was 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


205 


iged.    "  Wonders  will  never  cease ! " 

world  said,  at  the  news  of  Made- 

>iselle  Gaultier's  conversion,  and  the 


world  was  right.  As  long  as  it  lasts, 
miracles  of  grace  will  take  it  by  sur- 
prise. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Nothing  till  that  latest  agony, 
Which  severs  us  from  nature,  shall  unloose 
This  fixed  and  sacred  hold. 

***** 

I  never  will  forsake  thee.  JoTumna  BaUUt. 

Tones  in  her  quivering  voice  awoke 

As  if  a  harp  of  battle  spoke ; 

Light  that  seem'd  born  of  an  eagle's  nest 

Flashed  from  her  soft  eyes  unrepress''d, 

And  her  form,  like  a  spreading  water-flower, 

When  its  frail  cup  swells  with  a  sudden  shower, 

Seem'd  all  dilated  with  love  and  pride. 

Mrs.  ffeman*. 


AT  about  six  o'clock  that  day,  his 
majesty  Lewis  the  well-beloved,  the 
idol  of  his  people,  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  and  attractive  men  of  his  time, 
was  sitting  in  his  private  apartments 
at  Versailles,  conversing  with  the  queen 
to  whom  he  was  still  devotedly  at- 
tached. The  young  dauphin  and  his 
little  sisters  were  playing  about  the 
room.  The  gentleman  in  waiting 
brought  in  a  letter  for  the  king,  who 
read  it,  and  smiled. 

"Our  good  friend  the  Comte  de 
Saxe,"  his  majesty  said,  "  entreats  the 
favour  of  an  immediate  interview.  In 
order,  I  suppose,  to  pique  our  curiosity, 
he  pledges  himself  to  make  known  to 
us  a  history  that  we  shall  with  difficulty 
credit,  so  like  does  it  sound  to  a  tale 
of  fiction,  but  which  he  nevertheless 
declares  to  be  perfectly  true." 

"  Your  majesty  is  always  glad  to  see 
the  Comte  de  Saxe,  and  will  doubtless 
accede  to  his  request,  and  direct  that 
he  be  admitted." 

"  Ah !  madame.  Is  there  not  some 
feminine  curiosity  lurking  in  your  im- 
plied desire  to  receive  the  noble  count  ? " 


"I  confess,  sire,  that  a  romance  in 
real  life  is  well  fitted  to  excite  the  in- 
terest of  one  whose  own  destiny  might 
be  described  under  that  name." 

As  she  said  this,  Marie  Leckzinska 
looked  with  tenderness  at  the  king, 
whom  she  passionately  loved. 

The  young  monarch,  for  although 
the  father  of  four  children,  Lewis  the 
XY.  was  scarcely  three  and  twenty 
years  old,  commanded  the  Comte  de 
Saxe  to  be  introduced.  Like  most  sov- 
ereigns, the  king  of  France  liked  to  be 
treated  with  the  cautious  familiarity 
which  some  persons  know  how  to  use 
without  trespassing  the  limits  of  respect. 
Perhaps  he  liked  the  familiarity  more 
than  the  respect.  The  sovereign  who, 
in  his  maturer  years,  allowed  Madame 
Dubarry  to  treat  him  as  a  laquais,  and 
to  call  him  La  France,  could  not  have 
had  at  any  time  much  dignity  of  char- 
acter ;  but  in  his  youth  there  was  some- 
thing attractive  in  this  royal  bonhomie. 
The  Comte  de  Saxe  perfectly  understood 
his  royal  master's  disposition  and  tastes, 
and  stood  high  in  his  good  graces. 

"Ah!  M.  de  Saxe,"  the  king  ex- 


206 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


claimed,  as  the  count  made  his  obei- 
sance to  him  and  to  the  queen,  "  welcome 
to  Versailles.  Would  that  you  took 
us  oftener  by  surprise.  It  is  one  of  the 
ennuis  of  our  position  to  have  no  unex- 
pected pleasures.  Our  life  is  so  mapped 
out  beforehand  that  I  sometimes  fancy 
to-morrow  is  yesterday,  I  know  so  well 
all  about  it." 

A  shade  of  anxiety  passed  over  the 
queen's  face.  The  king's  liability  to 
ennui  was  her  greatest  trouble.  She 
had  none  of  the  lively  wit  or  piquancy 
of  manner  which  aids  a  woman  to  re- 
tain her  hold  of  the  affection  of  a  man 
of  indolent  temperament  and  idle  habits. 
"I  hope,"  she  said  to  the  count, 
"  that  you  are  not  about  to  harass  our 
feelings  too  deeply  by  the  history  you 
are  going  to  tell  us." 

"  Ah !  madame — the  cause  I  have  to 

plead " 

"  O  come ! "  exclaimed  the  king, 
"this  is  not  fair,  you  spoke  of  a  ro- 
mantic story  and  now  hint  at  a  peti- 
tion." 

"  I  have  indeed  a  petition  to  make, 
sire,  and  no  trifling  one  either — no  less 
a  one  than  for  the  immediate  release 
of  two  prisoners.". 

The  king  looked  annoyed. 
"And  it  must  be  the  act  of  your 
majesty ;  an  order  emanating  from  your- 
self alone." 

"  You  should  have  spoken  to  M.  de 
Frejus." 

"No,  sire,  to  your  majesties  alone 
could  I  communicate  the  story  of  a 
princess  of  royal  birth,  whose  unex- 
ampled destiny  places  her  at  your 
mercy." 

"  A  princess  ! "   repeated  the  king, 
"of  what  nation?" 
"  A  German,  sire." 

"Ah!  they  are  innumerable,  your 
German  princesses,"  Madame  des  Ursins 
said  to  the  minister  of  a  small  Teutonic 
Prince,  who  had  rejected  the  hand  of  a 
Spanish  lady  of  high  rank.  "  Monsieur, 


une  grandesse  d'Espagne  vaut  bien  une 
petitesse  d'Allemagne."  Is  your  prin- 
cess, M.  de  Saxe,  une  petitesse  d'Alle- 
magne ? " 

"  So  far  from  it,  sire,"  rejoined  the 
count,  "  that,  had  she  been  fifteen  years 
younger,  she  might  have  aspired  to 
your  majesty's  hand,  for  her  sister  was 
the  wife  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  and 
the  House  of  Hapsburg  deemed  it  no 
mesalliance." 

"  Who  can  you  be  speaking  of,  M. 
de  Saxe  ?  What  emperor  do  you  mean  ? 
The  present  emperor  was  married  to 
the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Duke  of 
Brunswick,  Wolfenbuttel,  and  her  sister 
married  the  Czarowitch  of  Russia." 

"  Sire,  the  sister  of  the  late  Empress 
of  Austria,  the  daughter  of  the  Duke 
of  Brunswick,  the  widow  of  the  Czaro- 
witch, is  at  this  moment  in  the  prison 
of  the  Conciergerie,  and  it  is  on  her 
behalf  I  have  come  to  implore  your 
majesty ! " 

"  My  dear  M.  de  Saxe,  you  are  under 
a  strange  delusion,  for  I  suppose  you 
are  not  joking!" 

"  Sire,  I  never  was  further  from  it  in 
my  life." 

"  But  the  princess  you  speak  of  has 
been  dead  these  fifteen  years." 

"Sire,  she  is  not  dead.  How  she 
happens  to  be  alive  I  did  not  know  till 
two  months  ago,  when  I  met  her  in  the 
Tuileries  Gardens.  The  sound  of  her 
voice  first  arrested  my  attention ;  then 
I  caught  sight  of  her  face,  and  though 
more  than  sixteen  years  had  elapsed 
since  I  had  seen  her,  I  recognized  at 
once  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Bruns- 
wick. Sire,  I  had  been  her  playmate 
in  childhood — later,  she  honoured  me 
with  her  friendship.  I  loved  her  as 
those  love  who  can  never  hope  to  be 
loved  in  return ;  with  an  intense,  hope- 
less, reverent  affection;  she  was  a  wo- 
man who,  when  once  known,  could 
never  be  forgotten." 

"I  have  heard  my  beloved  father 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


207 


speak  of  her,"  said  the«  queen.  "  He 
used  to  say  that  her  eyes  had  a  melan- 
choly beauty,  a  dreamy  softness  pecu- 
liarly their  own,  and  that  to  look  upon 
her  and  to  love  her  was  the  same  thing." 

"Madame,  I  verily  believe  that  in 
body  and  in  mind  so  rare  a  creature 
has  seldom  graced  a  palace  or  a  cot- 
tage. From  the  very  moment  I  saw 
her  I  had  not  a  doubt  as  to  her  identi- 
ty. She  turned  away,  she  tried  to  put 
me  off,  to  avoid*  answering  my  abrupt 
and  eager  questions;  but  her  tears, 
her  changing  colour,  her  passionate 
emotion,  betrayed  her.  She  refused, 
however,  to  give  me  any  clue  as  to  the 
name  she  bore  or  the  place  of  her  resi- 
dence. I  wished  to  inform  your  majes- 
ty at  once  of  the  existence  of  the  prin- 
cess, but  she  extorted  from  me  a  prom- 
ise to  delay  this  disclosure  for  three 
months.  When  I  lost  sight  of  her  that 
day  doubts  as  to  my  own  sanity  occur- 
red to  me,  for  the  death  of  the  Czaro- 
witch's  consort  was  a  well-known  pub- 
lic event.  All  the  Courts  in  Europe 
had  gone  into  mourning  for  her ;  and 
the  thought  of  the  interview  I  had  just 
had  with  the  living-dead  was  a  fact 
enough  to  drive  reason  from  its  throne. 
A  sudden  recollection  flashed  then  on 
my  brain.  I  remembered  having  seen 
amongst  my  mother's  papers,  when  I 
was  sorting  them  after  her  death,  a 
packet,  on  which  was  written,  '  partic- 
ulars relating  to  the  supposed  death 

of .  To  be  read  by  my  son  after 

my  decease.'  Pressed  as  I  was  at  that 
moment  by  a  multiplicity  of  affairs,  I 
put  off  opening  this  packet  to  a  period 
of  greater  leisure.  The  events  of  the 
campaign  and  my  return  to  Paris  put 
it  out  of  my  mind,  until  suddenly  the 
words  '  supposed  death '  flashed  across 
me  like  a  ray  of  light.  I  wrote  for  the 
box  in  which  I  had  left  this  packet, 
and  only  a  few  days  ago  made  myself 
acquainted  with  its  contents." 

u  And  did  it  relate  to  the  princess  ? " 


eagerly  asked,  in  the  same  breath,  the 
king  and  the  queen. 

"It  did,  inadame,  and  sire— if  my 
mother  erred,  if  she  acted  with  precipi- 
tation, if  she  allowed  her  fears  for  the 
life  of  a  beloved  friend  to  get  the  better 
of  her  prudence,  now  that  she  is  no 
more,  your  majesties  will  pity  and  ex- 
cuse a  woman's  pity  for  a  woman.  I 
know  not  how  to  judge  an  unprecedent- 
ed action.  Unwonted  dangers  call  for 
extraordinary  remedies.  This  paper, 
sire,  gives  a  full  account  of  the  manner 
in  which  the  Comtesse  de  Konigsmark, 
in  conjunction  with  the  attendants  of 
the  Czarowitch's  consort,  spread  the 
report  of  her  decease  after  her  brutal 
husband  had  left  her  apparently  dead. 
It  was  well  known  to  the  princess's 
friends  that  Alexis  had  resolved  on  her 
destruction,  and  that  assassins  were  at 
hand  to  do  his  work  in  case  she  re- 
covered. They  placed  a  wooden  figure 
in  the  coffin  ostensibly  prepared  for  the 
princess,  and  tended  her  in  a  secluded 
chamber  until  she  had  strength  enough 
to  make  her  escape  from  Russia,  and 
the  doom  which  awaited  the  Czaro- 
witch's wife.  In  a  separate  letter  my 
mother  lays  her  commands  upon  me 
not  to  divulge  these  facts  unless  a  time 
should  come  when  the  princess  might 
desire  to  establish  her  identity.  I  have 
brought  these  documents  with  me,  sire, 
and  I  place  in  your  majesty  hands  the 
evidence  of  my  mother's  daring  act, 
and  of  the  existence  of  the  Princess 
Charlotte  of  Brunswick." 

"  This  is  indeed  a  wonderful  history," 
said  the  king  as  he  began  to  peruse  the 
papers. 

The  queen  in  the  mean  time  asked, 
"  And  where  did  the  princess  fly  when 
she  left  Russia?" 

"To  the  new  France,  madame,  ac- 
companied by  one  only  servant  and 
humble  friend— the  librarian  of  her 
father's-court,  who  had  followed  her  to 
St.  Petersburgh." 


208 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"And  how  comes  she  here?  and 
good  heavens !  did  not  you  say  she  was 
in  prison  ? " 

"Madame,  she  was  arrested  this 
morning,  at  the  instance  of  the  Russian 
embassy.  It  seems  that  when  she  es- 
caped from  St.  Petersburgh,  she  carried 
away  with  her  jewels  which  were  her 
own  private  property,  and  sold  a  part 
of  them  on  her  arrival  at  New  Orleans. 
These  trinkets,  of  course,  were  missed, 
and  orders  given  at  the  Russian  embas- 
sies and  consulates  to  institute  inquiries 
as  to  the  persons  who  were  supposed 
to  have  taken  them.  Suspicion  rested 
principally  on  one  individual,  who  had 
disappeared  at  the  time  of  the  prin- 
cess's supposed  death,  the  old  German 
librarian  who  had  accompanied  her  in 
her  flight.  It  does  not  seem  however 
that  the  inquiry  was  actively  followed 
up  in  the  colony ;  but  a  bracelet,  which 
the  princess  sold  since  her  arrival  in 
Paris,  has  been  recognized  by  a  jeweller 
who  many  years  ago  had  himself  ex- 
ecuted the  order  for  it.  In  conjunction 
with  a  German  who  had  seen  the  royal 
exile  in  America,  and  was  aware  of  the 
suspicions  afloat  on  the  subject,  he 
gave  information  to  Prince  Kourakin 
of  the  discovery  he  had  made.  Hence, 
the  princess's  arrest  on  a  charge  which 
places  her  amongst  felons  and  thieves, 
unless  his  majesty  interposes  at  once  to 
rescue  her  from  such  a  position." 

The  king  looked  up  from  the  papers 
he  had  been  perusing,  and  made  the 
count  repeat  again  the  foregoing  de- 
tails. Then  he  said,  "  Of  course,  the 
princess  must  be  at  once  released. 
These  documents,  M.  de  Saxe,  leave  no 
doubt  on  my  mind  that  the  lady  you 
recognized  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens  is 
the  same  person  the  Comtesse  de  Ko- 
nigsmark  speaks  of,  the  widow  of  the 
late  Czarowitch.  But  what  sort  of 
existence  has  she  led  during  all  these 
late  years?  Where  did  she  live,  and 
with  whom  ? " 


"  Sire,"  said  the  count,  in  the  tone  of 
a  man  who  makes  a  reluctant  confes- 
sion, "  the  romance  would  not  be  com- 
plete without  a  love  story." 

"Ah,"  said  the  king  laughing,  "is 
it  one  that  you  can  relate  before  the 
queen  ? " 

"  Sire,"  said  the  Comte  de  Saxe,  with ' 
some  emotion,  "  I  know  but  little  of  the 
Princess  Charlotte's  history  during  those 
years  of  obscure  seclusion.  But  I  would 
willingly  lay  down  my  life  that  her 
heart  is  as  pure  and  her  life  as  unstain- 
ed as  that  of  her  majesty  herself,"  he  add- 
ed, bowing  profoundly  to  Marie  Leck- 
zinska.  Since  the  Czarowitch's  decease, 
sire,  his  widow  has  married  a  French 
gentleman,  and  a  brave  man,  who  at  the 
time  of  the  Natches  insurrection,  by 
prodigies  of  valour  saved  her  and  many 
other  French  women  from  the  horrors  of 
a  lingering  death." 

Without  uttering  an  untruth,  the 
count  had  managed  to  make  it  appear 
that  the  marriage  had  followed  instead 
of  preceded  this  heroic  exploit.  Grat- 
itude, he  thought,  might  be  considered 
as  a  circonstance  attenuante. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  said  the  king,  "  how 
that  difficulty  can  be  got  over.  Such 
a  marriage  can  never  be  acknowledged 
by  her  relations.  Are  there  children  ? " 

"  One  girl,  sire." 

The  king  reflected  a  little,  and  then 
said,  "  I  will  write  with  my  own  hand 
a  letter  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  and 
inform  her  of  her  aunt's  existence,  and 
of  the  proofs  which  establish  it.  If  I 
judge  by  my  own  feelings  she  will  gladly 
offer  to  receive  her  at  her  own  court, 
and  to  provide  for  her  in  her  domin- 
ions a  home  suitable  to  her  rank.  She 
must,  of  course,  give  up  this  second 
husband.  I  forget  if  you  mentioned 
his  name  ? " 

"  Colonel  d'Auban,  sire." 

"  This  d'Auban  she  must,  of  course, 
separate  from ;  but  as  you  say  he  is  a 
brave  officer,  I  will  take  care  of  his 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


209 


fortune  and  place  him  in  a  good  posi- 
tion. The  daughter  can  be  educated 
at  St.  Cyr." 

The  queen  looked  anxiously  first  at 
M.  de  Saxe  and  then  at  the  king.  Her 
woman's  heart  evidently  shrunk  from 
this  summary  disposal  of  the  nearest 
and  dearest  ties  of  a  woman's  heart. 
She  ventured  to  say,  "  But  if  this  prin- 
cess is  attached  to  her  husband  and  her 
child,  would  it  not  be  possible — " 

"Possible,  madame,  for  the  Queen 
of  Hungary  to  call  M.  d'Auban  uncle, 
and  his  daughter  cousin  !  Heaven  for- 
bid that  any  royal  family  should  admit 
of  such  a  degradation — " 

"No;  what  I  meant  was  that  per- 
haps she  would  not  give  them  up." 

"  Then,  of  course,  her  family  could 
not  acknowledge  her." 

M.  de  Saxe  was  growing  very  impa- 
tient at  this  lengthened  discussion,  and 
ventured  to  say: 

"  Sire,  every  moment  must  appear  an 
age  to  the  princess,  who  has  already 
been  many  hours  in  prison." 

"  But  what  would  be  the  best  course 
to  pursue  ?  "  answered  the  king.  "  This 
strange  story  must  not  be  divulged  un- 
til I  receive  the  answer  of  the  Queen 
of  Hungary.  It  would  not  be  just  to 
her  royal  relatives  to  forestall  their  de- 
cision as  to  the  Princess  Charlotte's 
reassumption  of  her  name  and  position. 
But  she  cannot,  of  course,  remain  in 
prison,  or  in  a  mean  lodging.  She  had 
better  be  instantly  removed  from  the 
Conciergerie  to  one  of  our  royal  palaces 
— to  Fontainebleau,  for  instance,  and 
there  await  her  niece's  answer.  But 
how  can  this  release  be  explained  to 
the  Russian  embassy  ? " 

"Will  your  majesty  permit  me  to 
call  on  Prince  Kourakin,  and  to  inform 
him  that  it  is  your  royal  pleasure  that 
the  prosecution  be  abandoned  ?  " 

"He  will  think  it  strange  that  I 
should  interfere." 

"Not  so  strange,  perhaps,  as  your 
14 


majesty  supposes.  I  am  greatly  mis- 
taken if  there  is  not  one  person  at  least 
at  the  embassy  who  suspects  the  truth." 
"  Ah !  think  you  so,  M.  de  Saxe  ? 
Then  I  commend  to  your  prudence 
that  part  of  the  negotiation.  I  must 
see  M.  de  Frejus,  and  give  orders  under 
our  signet  to  remove  this  royal  lady  to 
our  palace  of  Fontainebleau.  Madame 
d'Auban,  is  not  that  the  name  she  goes 
by?  "Well,  M.  de  Saxe,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  you  have  redeemed  your 
pledge,  and  unfolded  to  us  as  romantic 
a  tale  as  the  pages  of  history  or  of  fic- 
tion have  ever  recorded.  We  will  not 
detain  you  any  longer,  M.  le  Comte. 
As  Hermione  says  to  Pyrrhus : — 

Tu  comptes  les  instants  quo  t u  perds  avec  mol ; 
Ton  coeur  impatient  de  revoir  ta  Troyenne, 
Ne  sonffre  qu'&  regret  qu'nne  antre  t'entretienne ; 
Tu  lui  paries  da  cceur,  ta  la  cherches  des  yeux. 

Ah !  how  inimitably  Mdlle.  Gaultier 
repeats  those  lines.  By  the  way,  is  it 
true  that  Hermione  is  about  to  retire 
from  the  stage  and  the  world  ?  M.  de 
Frejus  says  she  will  be  a  Carmelite." 

"  And  so  will  I,  my  papa  king,"  said 
a  little  voice  from  behind  the  queen's 
fauteuil.  This  was  Madame  Louise  de 
France,  then  only  two  years  old.  Thir- 
ty years  later  she  was  kneeling  at  her 
father's  feet  to  obtain  leave  to  live  and 
die  behind  the  grate  of  the  monastery 
of  St.  Denis.  The  king  took  her  on 
his  knees,  and  played  with  her  whilst 
he  went  on  talking  to  the  Comte  de 
Saxe. 

"  You  must  leave  with  me  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Konigsmark's  letters.  I  must 
forward  a  copy  of  her  statement  to  the 
Queen  of  Hungary.  Who  knows,  M. 
le  Comte,  if  we  hunt  this  week  in  the 
direction  of  Fontainebleau,  and  very 
probably  we  shall,"  the  king  said,  with 
a  laugh,  "  that  we  may  not  visit  this 
fair  spectre?" 

"  I  should  also  very  much  like  to  see 
her,  if  it  would  not  attract  too  much 
notice,"  the  queen  said.  "I  used  to 


210 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


hear  so  much  in  my  childhood  of  the 
Princess  Charlotte  of  Brunswick  and 
her  beautiful  blue  eyes." 

"Your  majesty  will  graciously  in- 
clude in  the  order  of  release  the  prin- 
cess's husband  ? "  asked  the  Comte  de 
Saxe,  as  he  was  taking  his  leave. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  king  gaily  answered ; 
"but  he  is  not  to  come  to  Fontaine- 
bleau,  or  his  daughter  either.  Prin- 
cesses cannot  many  commoners  and 
enjoy  at  the  same  time  the  privileges 
of  royalty." 

"And  what  happens  if  they  like 
commoners  better  than  privileges?" 
said  Madame  Victoire,  the  eldest  of 
the  Enfants  de  France. 

"  They  are  in  disgrace,"  his  majesty 
answered,  with  a  smile. 

"  Is  M.  de  Saxe  a  commoner,  and  are 
you,  sire,  a  privilege  ? " 

The  Queen  ordered  Madame  Victoire 
to  be  silent,  and  said  something  tanta- 
mount to  little  pitchers  having  long 
ears.  At  last  M.  de  Saxe  was  suffered 
to  depart.  He  was  not  quite  satisfied 
at  the  turn  things  had  taken.  From 
his  brief  interview  with  the  Princess, 
and  what  he  had  seen  of  her  daughter, 
he  had  a  strong  impression 

That  ties  around  her  heart  were  spun 
Which  could  not,  would  not  be  undone. 

The  king,  though  in  the  main  good- 
natured  and  kind-hearted,  did  not  like 
contradiction.  Who  does  but  those 
who,  through  a  long  training,  have 
overcome  their  distaste  to  it?  The 
order  for  Madame  d'Auban's  removal  to 
Fontainebleau,  pending  the  answer  of 
her  relatives,  sounded  somewhat  like 
an  honourable  imprisonment.  He 
dreaded  the  suffering  she  might  under- 
go from  the  anomalies  in  her  position, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  the  future. 
Would  she  blame  him  for  disclosing 
her  story  to  the  king?  Not,  he  sup- 
posed, under  the  circumstances  which 
had  compelled  him  to  do  so ;  but  wo- 
men are  not  always  reasonable.  The 


count  felt  anxious  and  out  of  humour 
with  the  king,  the  princess,  the  world, 
and  himself.  Men  of  prodigious 
strength  and  strong  will,  who  can  con- 
quer almost  every  thing  except  them- 
selves, get  as  irritated  with  complica- 
ted difficulties  as  women  with  an 
entangled  skein  of  silk.  They  long  to 
cut  through  the  knot,  but  if  they  have 
not  at  hand  either  knife  or  scissors 
there  remains  nothing  for  it  but  to 
chafe  at  the  obstacle. 

It  was  near  twelve  o'clock  at  night 
when  the  count  arrived  at  the  prison 
door,  and  with  great  trouble  succeeded 
in  rousing  the  porter  and  obtaining  an 
entrance.  Mentioning  his  own  name, 
and  slipping  a  louis  d'or  into  his  hand, 
he  asked  for  news  of  the  prisoners  who 
had -arrived  there  that  day.  The  sight 
of  gold  awakened  the  attention  of  the 
sleepy  Cerberus,  who  produced  a  book 
of  entries,  which  was  kept  in  the  en- 
trance lodge. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  turning  over  the 
leaves  till  he  found  the  last  page,  and 
running  his  finger  down  it,  "  here  are 
the  names  of  the  people  you  are  speak- 
ing of,  M.  de  Saxe.  Henri  George 
d'Auban  and  Sophia  Charlotte  his  wife. 
They  were  lodged  in  separate  cells  in 
the  fifth  ward  of  the  third  story." 

"  I  must  see  them  directly,"  said  the 
count.  "I  have  the  king's  order  to 
that  effect.  Let  the  governor  of  the 
prison  know  that  I  am  here." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  old  Adam, 
tightly  clutching  the  gold  piece  in  his 
hand,  "  but  your  excellency  cannot  see 
them,  for—" 

"  I  will  see  them,"  cried  the  Count 
Saxe. 

"But  it  is  impossible,  for—" 

"Nothing  is  impossible,"  said  the 
count,  stamping.  "My  soldiers  are 
never  allowed  to  use  that  word,  neither 
shall  you.  Take  your  keys  and  show 
me  the  way  to  the  governor  or  the 
prisoners'  rooms." 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


211 


"  But  when  I  tell  you,  M.  le  Comte— " 

"  And  I  tell  you,  M.  le  Guichetior, 
that  I  will  take  no  denial." 

Then  cried  the  man,  "you  must 
quarrel  with  the  good  God,  and  not 
with  me  ;  for  he  can  work  miracles  and 
I  can't." 

"  Miracles !  nonsense !  Show  me  the 
way." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  they  are  gone ! " 
roared  out  the  man,  who  had  now  slipt 
into  his  pocket  the  count's  louis  d'or. 

"  Gone !  The  devil  they  are !  Where  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  How  came  they  to  be  released  ? " 

"The  governor  ordered  them  to  be 
set  at  liberty  about  three  hours  ago, 
that's  all  I  know.  J  never  ask  ques- 
tions about  those  that  come  in  or  those 
that  go  out." 

Exceedingly  puzzled,  but  at  the  same 
time  relieved,  the  count  withdrew. 
Early  on  the  following  morning  he 
ordered  his  carriage  and  drove  to  the 
lodging  of  which  Antoine  and  Mina 
had  given  him  the  direction  on  the 
preceding  day.  Having  ascertained 
from  the  concierge  that  this  was  the 
house  where  M.  and  Madame  d'Auban 
lived,  and  that  they  were  at  home,  he 
rapidly  mounted  the  stairs  and  rang  at 
the  door  of  the  entresol,  which  was 
opened  by  a  tall,  careworn,  but  still 
handsome  man,  whom  he  guessed  must 
be  Henri  d'Auban. 

"Am  I  speaking  to  Colonel  d'Au- 
ban ? "  he  asked ;  and  immediately 
added,  "  I  am  the  Comte  de  Saxe." 

D'Auban  eagerly  invited  him  in,  and 
said,  "  I  know  how  very  very  kind  you 
have  been  to  my  daughter,  M.  le  Comte, 
and  most  glad  I  am  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  thanking  you.  Pray  come 
into  the  next  room  and  sit  down." 

Mina  was  giving  Ontara  a  French 
lesson.  She  jumped  up,  and  eagerly 
greeting  the  'Comte  de  Saxe,  said, 
"They  came  home  last  night.  I  had 
watched  at  the  window  till  I  fell  fast 


asleep  on  the  chair ;  and  it  was  mam- 
ma's kisses  which  woke  me." 

"  May  your  wakings  be  ever  as  sweet, 
Mademoiselle  Wilhelmina." 

At  that  moment  Madame  d'Auban 
came  in  from  the  back  room.  She  was 
taken  by  surprise  and  hesitated  an 
instant ;  then  holding  out  her  hand  to 
the  count,  she  said,  "  Oh  Maurice !  that 
child  has  told  me  how  good  you  have 
been  to  her,  and  what  you  meant  to  do 
for  us." 

"  May  I  speak  ? "  answered  the  count, 
glancing  at  Mina  and  Ontara,  who  had 
returned  to  their  books. 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  Madame  d'Au- 
ban, leading  the  way  to  the  back  room, 
and  making  a  sign  to  her  husband  to 
follow. 

But  he  shook  his  head  and  whispered, 
before  closing  the  door  upon  them, 
"  Speak  to  him  without  restraint,  dear- 
est heart.  He  knows  the  truth,  and 
will  advise  you." 

"  Oh,  Maurice ! "  she  exclaimed,  sink- 
ing down  on  a  chair,  while  he  stood  by 
the  chimney  looking  at  her  with  the 
tenderest  pity,  "  it  has  been  very  dread- 
ful. I  thought  I  should  have  gone  out 
of  my  mind  yesterday,  during  those 
terrible  hours  at  the  Conciergerie.  The 
expectation  of  being  examined  on  that 
strange  charge,  not  knowing  what  I 
could  answer,  and  knowing  no  one  to 
consult." 

"  But  how  on  earth  came  you  to  be 
released,  dearest  princess,  before,  the 
arrival  of  the  king's  order,  which  I  went 
to  Versailles  to  solicit?" 

"  Good  heavens  1  Maurice,  have  you 
told  him  about  me  ? " 

"  I  was  compelled  to  do  so,  princess. 
There  seemed  no  other  possible  way  of 
getting  you  out  of  prison." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  presently,"  said  the 
count,  feeling  some  embarrassment  in 
entering  on  that  question.  "  But  how 
were  you  released  ?" 


212 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


There  was  some  slight  noise  on  the 
stairs  which  made  Madame  d'Auban 
start. 

"I  am  afraid  of  every  thing,"  she 
said,  "since  yesterday — each  time  I 
hear  a  step,  or  the  door  opens,  I  trem- 
ble. There  is  one  other  person  besides 
you  who  knows  about  me,  and  I  con- 
clude it  was  through  his  means  we 
were  set  at  liberty.  This  note  was 
given  to  me  when  I  left  the  prison." 

She  took  a  note  out  of  her  bag,  and 
gave  it  to  the  count  to  read. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  glancing  at  the 
signature,  "Alexander  Levacheff!  I 
thought  as  much.  A  short  while  ago — 
since  I  saw  you  in  the  Tuileries,  prin- 
cess—I purposely  spoke  to  him  one  day 
of  my  early  acquaintance  with  your 
royal  highness,  and  in  his  manner  I  saw 
something  which  made  me  suspect  he 
knew  the  truth." 

"  He  saw  me  in  America  many  years 
ago,  and  recognized  me.  I  obtained 
from  him  an  oath  of  secresy.  Read 
what  he  says" — 

"MADAME, — Bound  by  the  promise 
you  extorted  from  me,  I  dare  not  rush 
to  your  feet  to  offer  you  my  services. 
It  was  but  a  few  days  ago  that  I  ascer- 
tained you  were  in  Paris.  I  only  ar- 
rived here  myself  a  month  ago.  Imag- 
ine my  feelings  when  I  was  informed 
of  your  arrest.  I  had  been  absent  for 
a  few  days,  and  accidentally  heard  it 
spoken  of  in  our  Chancellerie.  The 
blood  froze  in  my  veins.  You  !  Prin- 
cess !  consigned  to  a  prison  !  You,  the 
associate  of  low-born  and  guilty  wretch- 
es !  You  accused  and  persecuted !  and 
by  whom  ?  By  those  who  might  once, 
but  for  untoward  events,  have  been 
your  subjects!  By  the  representative 
of  your  own  sister-in-law !  Madame,  I 
did  not  betray  your  secret ;  but,  to  stop 
those  infamous  proceedings,  I  hinted 
to  Prince  Kourakin  that  there  was  a 
mystery  in  this  affair  which  he  would 


do  well  to  respect,  for  it  could  not  be 
solved  without  dangerous  disclosures. 
He  took  fright,  God  be  praised,  and 
withdrew  the  charge.  Do  not  let  it  be 
a  source  of  uneasiness  to  your  royal 
highness,  but  rather  of  comfort — that 
there  is  in  this  town  one  heart  that 
owns  allegiance  to  you — one  man  who 
would  fain  proclaim  before  the  world, 
if  permitted  to  do  so,  the  sentiments 
he  cherishes  for  the  most  perfect  of 
women  and  the  noblest  of  princesses. 
"ALEXANDER  LEVACHEFF." 

"You  see,  Maurice,"  said  Madame 
d'Auban,  "that  my  existence  would 
soon  become  known  if  I  remained  in 
Europe.  I  wish  to  leave  Paris  as  soon 
as  possible." 

"  This,  of  course,  must  depend,  prin- 
cess, on  the  views  you  have  as  to  the 
future.  The  king  is  mightily  interested 
by  your  story,  and  bent,  I  perceive,  on 
bringing  about  your  restoration  to  your 
rank  and  family.  A  messenger  is  al- 
ready gone  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary, 
bearing  a  letter  from  his  majesty,  in 
which  he  informs  her  of  your  royal 
highness's  existence  and  return  to  Eu- 
rope. His  Majesty  has  also  ordered 
that  an  apartment  be  prepared  for  you 
at  the  palace  of  Fontainebleau,  whither, 
I  believe,  it  is  his  wish  you  should  forth- 
with remove,  and  where  he  intends 
himself  secretly  to  pay  you  his  respects. 
Not  that  I  am  authorized  to  say  so,  or 
to  convey  any  direct  message  to  your 
royal  highness." 

Madame  d'Auban  coloured  deeply, 
and  said,  "  And  my  husband  and  my 
child?" 

"Ah!  there  is  the  difficulty.  The 
king  would  provide  for  them  in  the 
most  ample  and  generous  manner  on 
condition  that  your  royal  highness  con- 
sented to  separate  from  them." 

"  To  separate  myself  from  them,"  she 
slowly  repeated.  "To  give  them  up, 
and  oh,  good  God !  for  what  ?  No," 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


213 


she  said,  starting  up,  with  a  vehemence 
which  astonished  the  Comte  de  Saxe 
in  that  gentle  creature,  whose  voice 
and  eyes  were  sweetness  itself.  "  No, 
you  do  not  say — you  do  not  mean  that 
the  king  said  that.  You  would  not 
dare  to  repeat  such  words  to  a  wife !  a 
mother !  a  princess !  I  have  gone  through 
much  and  terrible  suffering.  By  a  royal 
husband  and  by  the  savages  of  the  New 
World  I  have  been  treated  as  a  slave. 
I  have  looked  death  in  the  face  in  the 
palace  and  at  the  stake.  I  have  drunk 
the  cup  of  humiliation  to  the  dregs, 
and  but  yesterday  was  consigned  to  a 
felon's  cell;  but  there  is  one  trial, 
Maurice,  which  I  think  a  merciful  God 
will  spare  me.  He  will  not  suffer  the 
great  ones  of  the  earth  to  lay  again 
their  iron  hands  on  my  heart,  to  tread 
under  foot  its  strongest  affections,  and 
insult  me  with  such  an  offer  as  the 
horrible  one  you  have  just  mentioned. 
No,  let  me  depart  in  peace,  and  ask 
nothing  at  their  hands.  For  one  mo- 
ment, when  you  said  the  king  knew 
my  history,  a  thought  crossed  me — a 
sort  of  yearning  wish  to  see  once  more 
those  kindred  faces,  to  hear  the  sound 
of  voices  whose  tones  have  often  haunt- 
ed me;  but  no,  there  are  no  ties,  no 
sympathy  between  us  now.  I  am  noth- 
ing to  them  but  a  name  they  will  deem 
I  have  disgraced.  I  died  in  the  palace 
where  my  young  life  was  blighted.  Let 
them  think  of  me  as  buried  in  the  same 
grave  as  my  forsaken  boy.  Go  and  tell 
the  King  of  France  that  Charlotte  of 
Brunswick  is  no  more.  That  the  woman 
you  spoke  of  yesterday  is  the  wife  of  a 
poor  gentleman,  and  owns  no  name 
but  his." 

"  Be  calm,  dearest  princess,  be  calm," 
cried  the  count,  himself  much  agitat- 
ed. 

"  Calm !  when  you  spoke  of  giving 
them,  up,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  next 
room. 

"  But  I  did  not  advise  you  to  do  so, 


princess.  If  you  do  not  desire  to  return 
to  your  relatives — " 

"  My  relatives !  Ahl  when  they  mar- 
ried me  to  the  Czarowitch  they  parted 
from  me  for  ever.  Why  should  the 
ghost  of  my  former  self  haunt  their  pal- 
aces again  ? " 

"I  feel  sure,"  said  the  count,  "that 
when  the  king  understands  your  feel- 
ings and  wishes,  he  will  not  place  you 
under  any  restraint,  or  compel  you  to 
part  with  your  husband." 

A  deadly  paleness  spread  over  Mad- 
ame d'Auban's  face.  The  words  of  the 
count,  which  were  meant  to  reassure 
her,  in  her  excited  state  of  mind  awoke 
her  fears.  She  remained  a  moment 
silent,  and  then  said  with  an  unnatural 
calmness,  "  I  have  been  foolishly  agitat- 
ed, M.  de  Saxe.  Important  decisions 
need  to  be  maturely  weighed.  No  one 
ought  to  trust  to  their  first  impressions. 
Will  you  convey  to  the  king  my  humble 
thanks  for  his  majesty's  kindness,  and 
say  that  I  commend  myself  to  his  clem- 
ency, and  crave  permission  not  to  avail 
myself,  at  present  at  least,  of  his  maj- 
esty's gracious  permission  to  reside  in 
one  of  his  royal  palaces.  Or  stay :  as 
you  were  not  charged  with  any  direct 
message  to  me  from  the  king,  let  it  be 
supposed,  M.  de  Saxe,  that  no  commu- 
nication has  been  made  to  me — no  in- 
timation given  of  his  majesty's  gracious 
intentions.  I  need  repose  after  the 
emotions  and  fatigues  of  yesterday,  and 
I  would  rather  not  see  even  you,  M.  de 
Saxe,  for  a  little  while—", 

"  Certainly,  princess,  I  will  not  in- 
trude upon  you  again  till  you  wish  it 
But  you  will  permit  me  to  send  to- 
morrow to  inquire  after  your  health  t" 

She  bowed  her  head  and  said — u  You 
have  been  very  kind  to  me  and  mine, 
M.  de  Saxe,  from  my  heart  I  thank  you." 

The  count  saw  that  utterance  was 
failing  her.  He  respectfully  kissed  her 
hand  and  withdrew.  As  he  passed 
through  the  front  room  he  took  a 


214 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


friendly  leave  of  d'Auban  and  Mina, 
and  in  the  afternoon  went  to  Versailles 
to  inform  the  king  of  the  spontaneous 
abandonment  of  the  charge  against  the 
princess,  and  the  particulars  of  his  in- 
terview with  her. 

The  instant  the  door  had  closed  upon 
him,  Madame  d'Auban  called  her  hus- 
band into  her  room,  and,  laying  her  icy 
cold  hand  on  his,  said — 

"  Henri,  we  must  go  away  at  once. 
The  king  knows  all,  and  he  has  spoken 
of  our  parting.  I  am  terrified,  Henri ; 
I  will  not  stay  another  day  in  Paris." 

"  Not  half  a  day,  if  possible,  my  own 
love.  But  surely  the  king  would  not, 
could  not  force  you  against  your  will 
to  part  from  me." 

"  Henri,  there  are  such  things  as  let- 
tres  de  cachet.  There  are  also  gilded 
dungeons,  where,  under  pretence  of 
doing  honour  to  a  guest,  a  woman  may 
be  doomed  to  endless  misery.  He  want- 
ed me  to  go  to  Fontainebleau — without 
you,  without  Mina.  I  should  have  been 
taken  there  at  once  from  the  prison  if 
we  had  not  been  released  before  the 
royal  order  arrived.  I  am  frightened, 
Henri.  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  the 
English  princess  Arabella  Stuart,  and 
of  the  Due  de  Lauzun  sent  to  Pignerol 
for  aspiring  to  the  hand  of  the  Grande 
Mademoiselle  ? " 

"  No,  not  altogether  for  that  reason, 
dearest.  But  tell  me,  have  you  confi- 
dence in  the  Comte  de  Saxe  ? " 

"  He  means  well ;  but  I  trust  no  one. 
Let  me  leave  Paris." 

D'Auban  saw  that  his  wife's  nerves 
had  given  way  under  the  pressure  they 
had  undergone,  and  that  nothing  but 
an  immediate  departure  would  calm 
her.  He  did  not  himself  feel  any  of 
the  alarm  she  was  seized  with.  It 
seemed  to  him  evident,  indeed,  that 
she  would  have  to  choose  between  him 
and  her  child  and  the  notice  of  royalty 
and  the  reestablishment  of  her  position 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Still,  both 


for  the  sake  of  her  tranquillity  and  as 
a  measure  of  prudence,  he  deemed  it 
best  to  acquiesce  in  her  desire,  and  for 
them  to  withdraw  at  once  from  the 
smiles  or  the  frowns  of  royalty.  He 
reflected  for  an  instant,  and  then  said : — 

u  I  am  of  opinion,  my  best  love,  that 
you  and  Mina  should  start  at  once  for 
the  Chateau  de  la  Croix.  My  old  friend 
has  begged  us  most  urgently  to  pay 
him  a  visit  before  we  leave  France ;  he 
has  set  his  heart  on  seeing  Mina.  If  I 
write  by  the  next  messenger,  he  will 
receive  my  letter  in  time  to  prepare  for 
your  arrival.  Nobody  here  will  know 
where  you  are  gone.  I  will  follow  you 
as  soon  as  I  have  finished  some  abso- 
lutely necessary  arrangements,  and  we 
can  sail  from  Marseilles  to  the  Isle  de 
Bourbon.  As  soon  as  you  are  gone  I 
will  give  up  these  lodgings  and  leave 
no  direction.  If  you  will  pack  up  a 
few  things  for  your  journey,  dearest,  I 
will  take  you  to  the  Convent  des  An- 
glaises,  where  you  can  stay  till  I  have 
ascertained  the  hour  when  the  Lyons 
diligence  starts.  In  three  days  I  hope 
you  will  be  in  the  old  castle  in  the 
Forez,  where  nobody  will  dream  of 
looking  for  you,  my  pale,  sweet  love." 

Saying  this,  he  pressed  his  wife  to  his 
heart.  She  tenderly  returned  his  caress- 
es, and  said : 

"  Oh  !  how  much  more  freely  shall  I 
breathe  when  I  have  left  Paris  behind, 
and  still  more  when  the  waves  are 
rolling  between  France  and  us.  I  be- 
gin to  feel  that  I  have  been  foolish, 
Henri.  The  king  has  no  interest  in 
forcing  me  back  into  my  former  posi- 
tion, and  if  he  had,  he  is  not  a  wicked 
tyrant,  like  the  English  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. God  help  him  ;  perhaps,  when 
he  made  the  suggestion  that  almost 
drove  me  out  of  my  senses,  he  thought 
he  was  doing  me  a  kindness.  Of  course, 
his  power,  or  that  of  my  relatives,  could 
reach  us  in  Bourbon  as  well  as  here ; 
but  when  they  find  we  desire  nothing 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


215 


at  their  hands — that  we  only  wish  to 
be  forgotten,  they  will  not  renew  offers 
which  are  a  pain  and  an  insult.  But 
will  you  wait  till  you  get  the  promised 
appointment,  Henri  ?  " 

This  was  said  with  an  anxiety  which 
made  him  answer  at  once : 

"  No,  dearest,  I  have  letters  to  the 
Governor  of  Bourbon  which  will,  I 
hope,  secure  my  obtaining  some  small 
post  in  the  island.  At  all  events,  we 
can  live  cheaper  at  St.  Denys  than  at 
Paris,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  as  he 
saw  her  face  brightening  up  with  the 
prospect  of  a  speedy  departure.  "  Poor 
Mina,"  she  said,  "  how  grieved  she  will 
be  to  part  with  Ontara,  and  so  sudden- 
ly, too.  Will  you  break  it  to  the  poor 
child?" 

D'Auban  went  into  the  room  where 
his  daughter  and  her  adopted  brother 
were  reading  together.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder  and  called  her 
away. 

"  My  Mina,"  he  said,  folding  his  arms 
around  her,  "you  were  a  courageous 
little  girl  when  you  went  to  look  for 
the  Comte  de  Saxe,  and  now  you  must 
show  another  kind  of  courage." 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  and  smiled, 
but  he  felt  that  a  thrill  ran  through  her 
slight  frame. 

"  For  reasons  you  cannot  as  yet  un- 
derstand, your  mother  cannot  remain 
here  any  longer.  She  must  leave  this 
house  in  an  hour,  and  Paris  this  even- 
ing. Antoine  will  go  with  you." 

"Not  you,  papa?" 

"  I  shall  join  you  in  a  few  days,  and 
then  we  shall  all  leave  France." 

The  child  smiled  again,  and  though 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes  she  resolutely 
forced  them  back,  and  kissed  her  father 
without  speaking  a  word.  He  beck- 
oned to  Ontara. 

"  My  dear  son,"  he  said,  as  he  made 
him  sit  down  by  their  side.  "  Strange 
and  sudden  events  compel  us  to  depart 
at  once  from  my  native  land.  There  is 


no  abiding  place  for  us  in  this  world, 
Ontara.  We  are  wanderers,  like  you, 
on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  but  the  day 
will  come,  please  God,  when  we  shall 
meet  again  in  a  home  of  our  own." 

"May  not  Ontara  say  to  you,  the 
white  chief  he  loves  as  a  father,  what 
the  daughter  of  Moab  said  to  her  dead 
husband's  mother? — 'Entreat  me  not 
to  leave  thee,  or  to  return  from  follow- 
ing after  thee.  May  not  your  people  be 
his  people,  even  as  your  God  has  be- 
come his  God  ? ' " 

"  No,  dear  youth,"  d'Auban  answered, 
"  it  may  not  be  so  now.  Your  duty  is 
to  stay  for  the  present  with  your  kind 
protector  M.  Maret,  and  to  continue  the 
studies  which  will  enable  you  to  pursue 
whatever  path  in  life  Providence  may 
mark  out  for  you.  But  wherever  we 
have  a  home  that  home  will  be  yours, 
dear  Ontara,  and  under  a  foreign  sky, 
and  in  scenes  equally  new  to  us  all,  we 
shall,  I  trust,  meet  again  in  a  very  few 
years.  And  now,  my  children,  I  must 
leave  you,  for  there  is  much  to  be  done 
ere  I  return.  My  Mina,  you  and  your 
mother  will  be  gone  from  this  house, 
but  I  shall  see  you  in  the  afternoon  at 
the  Convent  des  Anglaises." 

Ontara  did  not  speak  at  first.  He 
was  like  a  person  stunned  by  a  sudden 
blow.  Mina  had  stood  him  in  stead 
of  country,  and  kindred,  and  friends ; 
he  seemed  to  have  concentrated  upon 
her  all  the  feelings  of  which  his  heart 
was  capable,  and  young  as  she  was  she 
fully  understood  their  strength  and 
depth,  and  returned  his  affection  with 
a  love  which  was  made  up  of  gratitude, 
enthusiasm,  pity  and  admiration.  In 
him  she  saw  the  representative  of  the 
North  Indian  race,  and  of  the  land 
where  they  had  both  been  born.  She 
had  not  shed  a  tear  in  her  father's  sight 
but  now  she  wept  bitterly.  He  gave 
no  outward  signs  of  grief,  but,  in  a 
grave  tone  of  voice  and  a  fixed  earnest 
gaze,  he  said : 


216 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"  When  we  parted  in  the  forest  on 
that  dark  night  when  I  gave  you  back 
to  your  father,  you  made  me  a  promise, 
Wenonah  ;  will  you  renew  it  now  ? " 

"Yes,  I  will,  Ontara.  Unless  I  am 
compelled  to  it,  I  will  never  marry  a 
white  man.  I  will  never  marry  at 
all" 

"  Nay,  but  will  you  be  my  wife  ? 
The  rainbow  of  my  life ;  the  day-star 
of  my  dark  sky?  The  Rachel  for 
whom  I  will  work  for  seven  years,  if 
need  be,  oh,  daughter  of  the  white 
man." 

"  No,  my  brother,  that  can  never  be. 
The  daughters  of  white  men,  every  one 
says  so,  do  not  marry  their  Indian 
brethren.  They  may  love  them  as  I 
do ;  they  may  be  willing  to  die  for 
them  as  I  would  for  you  and  for  your 
people,  Ontara ;  but  white  fathers  and 
mothers  will  not  let  them  be  your 
wives,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  be  a  wife. 
I  wish  to  be  your  sister." 

"And  will  you  then  always  be  my 
sister  ?  and  when  I  come  to  the  home 
your  father  speaks  of,  shall  we  finish 
the  book  we  have  been  reading  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  cried  Mina,  holding  out 
her  hand  for  the  volume.  "  See,  I  turn 
down  the  page  where  we  left  off."  It 
was  the  life  of  Father  Claver,  the  apos- 
tle of  the  negroes. 

"  I  bought  a  copy  of  it  this  morn- 
ing ;  here  it  is,  will  you  write  some- 
thing in  it?" 

She  took  up  a  pen,  and  with  an  un- 


steady hand  she  wrote,  "  Go  and  do 
thou  likewise." 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  when  we  parted 
in  the  forest  we  did  not  think  we 
should  meet  again  in  a  great  room 
full  of  fine  people ;  and  perhaps  some 
years  hence  we  shall  see  each  other 
again  in  some  place  we  do  not  know  of 
now." 

"My  child,  the  coach  is  waiting," 
said  her  mother,  who  was  counting  the 
minutes  in  her  eagerness  to  be  gone. 
Mina  hastily  placed  her  few  possessions 
in  a  straw  basket  Ontara  had  made  for 
her.  He  had  learnt  the  art  from  a  Ca- 
nadian coureur  des  tois.  Madame  d' Au- 
ban  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  the 
young  Indian.  Mina  could  not  speak, 
her  heart  was  too  full.  As  the  carriage 
rolled  off  she  saw  him  watching  them 
down  the  long  narrow  streets,  even  as 
he  had  once  before  watched  her  down 
the  green  vista  of  the  moonlit  grove, 
and  she  turned  round  to  her  mother, 
and  said : 

"Mamma,  is  life  as  full  of  changes 
for  every  one  as  it  is  for  us  ?  " 

"No,  my  child,"  was  the  answer, 
"  the  destinies  of  men  are  as  various  as 
their  faces.  It  seems  to  be  God's  will 
that  we  should  have  no  abiding  home 
on  earth.  What  must  we  say,  love  ? " 

"His  will  be  done,"  answered  the 
child,  laying  her  head  on  her  mother's 
bosom :  "  but,  mother,  I  think  the  best 
name  for  heaven  is, '  the  place  where 
there  are  no  partings.' " 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRTJE. 


21Y 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

With  delicate  hand  and  open  brow 
Like  Parian  marble  fair, 
Know  ye  him  not  ?    '  Tis  Tracy  de  Vere, 
The  baron's  beautiful  heir. 

"Tis  Tracy  de  Vere,  the  castle's  pride, 
The  rich,  the  nobly  bora, 
Pacing  along  the  sunlit  sod, 
With  the  step  of  a  playful  fawn. 

There's  a  halcyon  smile  spread  o'er  his  face 
Shedding  a  bright  and  radiant  grace ; 
There's  a  sweetness  of  sound  in  his  laughing  tones, 
Betraying  the  gentle  spirit  he  owns. 

He  teaches  her  how  to  note  the  hours 
By  where  the  sunbeams  rest ; 
He  wades  for  her  where  the  virgin  flowers 
Gracefully  bend  'neath  the  cascade's  showers, 
To  pluck  the  whitest  andbest 

He  tells  her  the  curious  legends  of  old 

Known  by  each  mountaineer ; 

He  tells  her  stories  of  ghost  and  fay, 


Waking  her  wonder  and  fear. 


Eliza  Cook. 


Then  pray  for  a  soul  in  peril, 

A  soul  for  which  Jesus  died ; 
Ask  by  the  cross  that  bore  him, 

And  by  her  who  stood  beside. 
And  the  angels  of  God  will  thank  you, 

And  bend  from  their  throue  of  light, 
To  tell  you  that  Heaven  rejoices 

At  the  deed  you  have  done  to-ntght. 

Adelaide  Proctor. 


THERE  had  been  a  long-standing  tra- 
ditionary friendship,  and  more  than 
one  intermarriage,  between  the  family 
of  the  de  la  Croix's  and  that  of  Henri 
d'Auban.  In  the  preceding  century 
the  heads  of  both  families  had  been 
zealous  partisans  of  the  League,  and 
lad  fought  side  by  side  under  the 
command  of  Guise  and  Joyeuse.  D'Au- 
ban's  grandfather  had  made  consid- 
erable pecuniary  sacrifices  to  ransom 
Tom  captivity  the  father  of  the  present 
Baron  de  la  Croix;  and  when  peace 
was  made  and  the  fortunes  of  his 
friend  reestablished,  he  would  never 


consent  to  be  reimbursed.  The  mem- 
ory of  this  debt  of  gratitude  had  been 
bequeathed  by  old  Pierre  de  la  Croix 
to  his  son  as  a  sacred  legacy.  And 
though  the  meetings  between  the  pres- 
ent representatives  of  these  two  famil- 
ies had  been  few  and  far  between, 
when  they  did  take  place  nothing 
could  exceed  the  friendliness  and  cor- 
diality of  their  relations.  Baron 
Charles  was  an  excellent  man,  and  a 
kind  one,  too,  notwithstanding  a  cer- 
tain abruptness  of  tone,  which  be- 
tokened a  more  habitual  intercourse 
with  inferiors  and  dependents  than 


218 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TKUE. 


with  his  equals.  He  had  not  what 
was  then  called  "1'air  de  la  cour."  But 
in  his  manner  to  women  there  was  a 
courteousness  which  savoured  of  the 
days  of  chivalry.  Since  he  had  been 
made  Provost  of  the  Forez,  a  slight 
pomposity  of  language  and  demeanour 
marked  the  good  old  man's  sense  of 
his  exalted  position  and  arduous  re- 
sponsibility. His  defects  were  skin 
deep,  not  so  his  virtues.  M.  de  Mais- 
tre  used  to  say,  "Grattez  le  Kusse, 
vous  trouverez  le  Tartare."  It  might 
have  been  said  of  the  baron,  "  Grattez 
le  tyran,  vous  trouverez  le  p£re ; "  for, 
whilst  he  rated  his  tenants  in  the  blus- 
tering fashion  he  had  learnt  as  a  youth 
in  camps,  and  apparently  governed  his 
family  in  a  despotic  manner,  it  was 
generally  supposed  that  not  only  his 
submissive-looking  wife,  the  picture  of 
a  chatelaine  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  his  handsome  daughter-in-law,  the 
widow  of  his  only  son,  could  do  with 
him  what  they  liked ;  but  that  his 
daughters,  the  twin  sisters,  merry 
pretty  Bertha  and  the  grave  and  se- 
date Isaure,  turned  him  round  their 
slender  fingers  with  very  little  difficul- 
ty. As  to  M.  le  Chevalier,  who,  had 
he  not  turned  round  his  fingers  in  that 
old  castle  since  the  day  that  five  weeks 
after  his  father  had  been  killed  at  the 
siege  of  Luneville,  he  opened  his  eyes 
on  a  world  which  as  yet  had  not  proved 
to  him  one  of  trouble.  This  young 
gentleman  was  eighteen  years  of  age, 
and  had  never  known  a  greater  sorrow 
than  leaving  home  for  the  college 
where  he  had  just  finished  his  studies ; 
or  the  loss  of  a  favourite  pointer  which 
had  died  a  few  days  before  that  on 
which  he  rode  out  with  his  grandfather 
and  some  of  their  tenants  to  meet  Mad- 
ame and  Mademoiselle  d'Auban,  who 
were  to  arrive'  at  the  neighbouring 
town  of  Montbrison  in  the  course  of 
the  afternoon.  The  woods  of  the  Forez 
had  been  lately  infested  with  robbers, 


forming  part  of  Mandrin's  famous 
gang,  and  the  baron  deemed  it  prudent 
to  send  his  carriage  and  four  to  meet 
the  travellers,  and  to  escort  them  him- 
self on  their  way  to  the  castle,  a  dis- 
tance of  about  fifteen  miles.  The  Che- 
valier Raoul  was  delighted  at  the  pros- 
pect of  visitors.  A  more  light-hearted 
young  gentilhomme  could  not  easily 
have  been  found  in  the  light-hearted 
land  of  France ;  his  black  eyes  had  an 
expression  of  good-humoured  espie- 
glerie,  and  his  laugh  an  irresistibly 
contagious  merriment  which  bewitched 
old  and  young. 

As  he  made  his  horse  curvet  and 
plunge  in  the  entrance  court  whilst  the 
detachment  was  getting  under  weigh, 
his  sisters  stood  at  the  window  kissing 
their  hands,  and  Bertha  said  to  Isaure : 

"  How  carefully  Raoul  has  powdered 
his  hair  to-day ;  and  he  has  put  on  his 
most  becoming  coat,  sister.  I  suspect 
grandpapa  has  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag." 

"What  cat  and  what  bag?"  asked 
Isaure,  who  had  her  wits  less  about  her 
than  her  twin  sister. 

"  If  you  have  not  guessed  I  will  not 
tell  you,  my  sweet  Isaure.  I  believe 
that  when  M.  le  Cure  publishes  the 
banns  of  marriage  between  Isaure  de  la 
Croix  and  Roger  d'Estourville,  you  will 
ask  in  that  same  dreamy  manner,  'Who 
is  it  that  is  to  be  married  come  next 
Midsummer?'" 

"  Giddy  girl,"  said  Isaure,  blushing 
and  laughing.  "No  fear  that  every- 
body will  not  know  in  and  round  the 
castle  when  your  wedding  is  at  hand. 
Ah  me  !  was  there  ever  such  a  wagging 
tongue  or  so  blithe  a  heart  as  yours. 
You  and  Raoul  ought  to  have  been 
born  on  the  same  day — not  you  and  I, 
sister." 

"There  they  go,"  cried  Bertha, 
the  cavalcade  went  out  at  the  porter' 
gate.     "  Grandpapa  is  never  so  pl( 
as  when  he  has  an  excuse  for 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


219 


out  his  bodyguard ;  and  M.  le  Cheva- 
lier will  not  be  sorry  to  show  off  that 
gray  steed  in  the  eyep  of  the  ladies." 

"  Come  into  the  parterre,  Isaure.  We 
will  gather  an  immense  bouquet  of 
roses  for  the  guest  chamber,  and  laven- 
der and  rosemary  to  scent  the  drawers." 

"How  I  wish  it  was  autumn,  that 
we  might  fill  the  grape  baskets  for  the 
bedroom  tables." 

"  It  is  like  you,  Isaure,  to  like  autumn 
better  than  spring,  and  fruit  than  flow- 
ers." 

"  "We  might  get  a  few  early  straw- 
berries, perhaps,  which,  in  a  corbeille 
with  green  moss,  would  look  pretty." 

"  I  have  a  mind  to  make  a  wreath  of 
violets  like  the  one  you  wore  at  Marian- 
ne's wedding  last  week,  and  put  it  on 
the  low  toilet  table." 

"  Does  not  mamma  want  you  in  the 
store-room  ? " 

"  No,  she  and  grandmamma  are  there 
as  busy  as  two  bees.  They  say  they  do 
not  want  a  buzzing-fly  like  me." 

"  Well,  go  and  get  your  violets,  and 
I  will  to  the  strawberry-bed,  and  take 
all  the  ripe  ones  in  spite  of  gardener 
grand  Louis's  cross  looks." 

"  But  do  not  before  your  task  is  half 
done,  pull  a  book  out  of  your  pocket, 
and  sit  down  like  an  idle  girl  in  the 
orchard.  Ever  since  Roger  called  you 
Clemence  Isaure  you  are  never  without 
a  book  in  your  hand.  And  I  do  not 
feel  sure  that  you  do  not  write  verses." 

"  Fie  Bertha,  bow  can  you  say  such 
a  thing  ? " 

"Well,  I  would  if  I  could.  It's  a 
sort  of  singing." 

And  one  sister  went  in  search  of 
flowers,  and  carolling  like  a  bird,  and 
the  other  knelt  beside  the  strawberry- 
bed,  filling  her  basket  and  repeating 
the  while  in  a  low  voice  lines  which 
.she  had  made  the  day  her  parents  told 
her  she  was  to  marry  Roger  d'Estour- 
ville,  with  whom  sfce  had  once  danced 
a  minuet,  and  who  had  picked  up  a 


rose  she  had  dropped,  as  he  led  her 
back  to  her  seat.  In  those  olden  times 
many  a  little  romance  was  mixed  up 
with  the  formalities  of  marriages  of 
convenance,  as  they  were  called  in 
France,  and  a  young  girl  was  some- 
times agreeably  surprised  by  the  order 
to  accept  as  a  husband  one  whom  she 
had  timidly  loved  from  her  childhood, 
or  had  fallen  in  love  with  at  first  sight, 
during  a  brief  interview  under  the  eyes 
of  her  parents.  It  does  not  seem  clear 
when  we  study  their  lives  that  women 
loved  their  husbands  less  or  were  less 
loved  by  them  in  the  days  of  Lady 
Russell,  Lady  Derwentwater,  Lady 
Nithsdale,  Madame  de  Montmorency, 
or  Madame  La  Roche  Jacquelin,  than 
in  our  own. 

The  baron  and  his  son  had  been  for 
some  time  standing  under  the  shade  of 
the  plane  trees,  in  the  promenade  at 
Montbrison,  when  the  Paris  diligence 
arrived  in  sight.  As  it  stopped  at  the 
door  of  the  inn,  M.  de  la  Croix  went 
to  the  carriage-door  to  greet  Madame 
d'Auban  and  her  daughter".  He  in- 
formed her  in  a  set  speech  that  he  had 
considered  it  a  duty  as  well  as  a  pleas- 
ure to  offer  her  the  protection  of  his 
escort  from  Montbrison  to  his  chateau, 
the  roads  and  woods  having  been  lately 
infested  by  robbers,  although  it  was  to 
be  hoped  that  the  measures  he  had 
taken,  as  Provost  of  the  Forez,  had  dis- 
persed the  gang  and  ensured  public 
safety.  He  then  conducted  her  to  his 
carriage  and  four,  which  was  drawn  up 
on  the  other  side  of  the  place,  and  call- 
ing his  grandson,  he  said,  *  Permit  me 
to  introduce  to  you  the  chevalier  Raoul 
de  la  Croix.'  The  chevalier's  black 
eyes  met  Mina's  blue  orbs ;  if  ever  a 
youth  of  eighteen  fell  in  love  at  first 
sight  with  a  girl  of  thirtrrn,  the  baron's 
grandson  did  so  on  that  sunny  after- 
noon in  June  under  the  plane  trees  of 
Montbrison,  as  he  handed  into  his 
grandfather's  carriage.  Mademoiselle 


220 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


Wilhelmina  d'Auban.  He  mounted 
Ms  gray  horse  and  rode  on  one  side  of 
the  stately  old  coach,  the  baron  on  the 
other,  and  their  retainers  before  and 
behind  it.  A  pleasant  change  it  was 
for  travellers  weary  of  the  high  road, 
its  noise,  and  its  dust,  to  be  rolling 
along  the  green  natural  avenues  of  a 
forest,  resting  on  soft  cushions,  with  no 
noise  in  their  ears  but  the  light  tramp 
of  the  horses'  feet,  and  no  glare  to  hurt 
their  eyes  now  that  the  noonday  rays 
were  shining  through  the  branches  of 
the  overarching  trees. 

Madame  d'Auban  felt  carried  back 
to  the  days  of  her  youth.  She  could 
fancy  herself  emerging  from  the  gates 
of  the  palace  at  Wolfenbuttel,  and 
driving  through  the  green  woods  of  its 
domain.  She  thought  of  the  other 
"Wilhelmina  who  had  then  sat  by  her 
side,  and  had  a  little  difficulty  in  at- 
tending to  the  baron  as  he  rode  and 
talked  with  her  at  the  carriage-window. 
Mina  was  delighted  at  the  novelty  of 
the  scene.  The  sound  of  the  postil- 
ions' horns,  the  rapid  motion,  the 
horses  and  the  riders,  the  vistas  of 
woodland  scenery — the  graceful  gam- 
bols of  two  large  dogs  who  formed  part 
of  the  cortege,  pleased  and  amused  the 
little  girl,  who  had  been  so  long  amidst 
painful  or  uncongenial  scenes.  Once 
as  a  fine  extent  of  country  opened  to 
view,  the  chevalier  pointed  to  it  with 
his  whip,  and  bent  forward  his  head 
to  see  if  she  had  taken  notice  of  it. 
She  smiled,  and  from  that  moment  he 
found  many  opportunities  of  directing 
her  attention  to  objects  of  interest  on 
the  road ;  sometimes  to  a  deer  bound- 
ing across  the  glade,  or  to  a  group  of 
children  gathering  wild  flowers  on  a 
bank,  or  to  a  flight  of  birds  careering 
across  the  sky.  "When  there  was  noth- 
ing else  to  show,  he  showed  off  a  little 
himself,  and  with  a  sidelong  glance 
took  notice  of  the  admiring  look  she 
gave  to  the  prancing  gray,  who  chafed 


the  bit  and  speckled  his  mane  with  foam 
with  admirable  docility  to  his  rider's 
desires. 

At  last  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
chateau  de  la  Croix,  an  old  stately  resi- 
dence, half  fortress,  and  half  palace. 
Part  of  it  had  fallen  in  ruins  and  was 
covered  with  ivy  and  gray  lichens. 
The  walls  which  surrounded  it,  and 
the  gateway  at  the  entrance  were 
crowned  with  a  fringe  of  larkspurs 
and  gillyflowers ;  and  a  little  trickling 
stream  edged  with  blue  forget-me-nots, 
and  teeming  with  water-cresses,  flowed 
through  the  moat  which  encircled  it. 
Mina  had  never  seen  any  thing  the  least 
like  this  before ;  though  what  she  had 
read  and  pictured  to  herself  as  she  read, 
gave  her  the  feeling  which  most  people 
have  known  some  time  or  other,  of  recog- 
nizing in  a  new  scene  the  visible  image 
of  a  long  familiar  dream.  Has  not  the 
view  of  the  Roman  Campagna  from  the 
steps  of  St.  John  of  Lateran  or  the 
Garden  of  the  Villa  Mattei  answered, 
in  a  startling  manner,  to  the  visions 
which  have  haunted  the  minds  of  many 
to  whom  Rome  is  an  object  of  artistic 
worship,  if  not  of  religious  veneration  ? 
When  the  coach  drove  up  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  winding  staircase  leading  to 
the  suite  of  apartments  inhabited  by 
the  family,  Madame  de  la  Croix  and 
her  daughter-in-law  came  half  way 
down  the  steps  to  greet  their  visitors. 
Bertha  and  Isaure  were  occupied  in  re- 
straining the  dogs,  who  wished  to  give 
them  an  equally  cordial,  but  more  trou- 
blesome, welcome.  But  their  bright 
eyes  spake  the  words,  and  when  they 
all  met  in  the  principal  salon  the  girls 
embraced  Mina,  and  then  quite  aston- 
ished at  her  height  wondered  if  she 
could  be  only  thirteen  years  old.  She 
was  as  tall  as  themselves — as  tall  as  Isa- 
ure, who  was  going  to  be  married  in  a 
few  weeks.  They  were  more  like  pretty 
fairies,  these  twin  sisters,  than  grown- 
up women.  Raoul,  who  was  a  year 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


221 


younger,  had  always  taken  upon  him- 
self the  airs  of  an  elder  brother.  Mad- 
ame de  la  Croix  was  an  imposing-look- 
ing person,  whose  regular  features  and 
serene  countenance  retained  their  beau- 
ty in  old  age.  She  was  formal  in  man- 
>ner,  but  very  kind.  There  were  traces 
'  of  sorrow  in  her  face,  of  a  quiet,  long- 
\  accepted,  softened  grief.  Between  her 
and  Madame  Armand  de  la  Croix,  the 
mother  of  Raoul  and  his  sisters,  there 
was  an  affection  which  made  the  old 
cure  call  them  Naomi  and  Ruth.  Dur- 
ing eighteen  years  they  had  clung  to 
each  other  as  they  had  done  on  the 
day  when  the  Marechal  de  Villar's  let- 
ter had  fallen  as  a  thunderbolt  on  their 
two  hearts.  "  Long  live  France,  and 
long  live  the  king,"  he  had  written. 
"  The  Baron  Armand  de  la  Croix  has 
died  as  a  hero,  with  the  enemy's  col- 
ours in  his  hand."  They  had  suffered 
together,  and  strengthened  each  other's 
purpose  not  to  let  the  shadow  of  their 
grief  fall  on  the  sunshiny  lives  of  the 
three  young  creatures  playing  and 
laughing  at  their  feet,  and  the  declin- 
ing years  of  the  Baron  who  concentrat- 
ed on  these  children  all  the  love  of  a 
nature  more  fitted  for  joy  than  for  sor- 
row. And  so  it  was  a  happy  home,  in 
spite  of  one  great  grief  shrined  in  the 
sanctuary  of  an  undying  love.  And 
that  happiness  was  contagious.  The 
old-fashioned  simplicity  of  manners, 
the  reverential  manner  of  the  children 
towards  the  parents,  the  patriarchal 
relations  between  the  masters  and  the 
servants,  the  tenants  and  their  lord — 
the  simple,  pious  customs  of  the  peas- 
antry, and  the  inexhaustible  charity  of 
the  two  mothers  as  they  were  fondly 
called  in  and  round  the  castle,  formed 
an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  joy  which 
insensibly  influenced  all  within  its 
sphere.  It  told  also  on  Mina — 

The  young  slight  girl,  the  fawn-like  child, 
Of  green  savannahs  and  the  leafy  wild, 
Yet  one  who  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed. 


It  brought  back  childhood  and  its 
sweet  merriment  to  her  over-wrought 
heart.  It  chased  away  what  was  too 
keen  and  too  bitter  in  the  memories  of 
the  last  years.  It  soothed  the  grief  of 
her  late  parting  with  her  Indian  broth- 
er, and  substituted  other  thoughts  for 
her  long,  solitary  musings  on  the  mys- 
tery which  she  dimly  discerned  in  the 
lives  of  her  parents.  But  at  first  there 
was  a  little  formality  in  her  intercourse 
with  the  young  de  la  Croixs.  Isaure 
and  Bertha,  and  even  Raoul,  were  more 
reserved  than  the  young  people  she  had 
lately  known  in  Paris*  Dinner  was 
served  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the 
strangers,  and  Raoul  supplied  every 
possible  and  impossible  want  of  hers 
with  watchful  assiduity;  but  though 
on  the  most  affectionate  footing  with 
their  parents,  the  old-fashioned  eti- 
quette was  preserved  in  this  family,  and 
the  son  and  daughters  maintained  an 
almost  unbroken  silence  whilst  their 
elders  conversed.  But  after  dinner 
they  went  out,  and  then  their  tongues 
were  loosened.  The  three  girls  walked 
up  and  down  the  terrace,  and  Mina 
asked  a  thousand  questions  about  the 
old  castle  ;  its  thick  gray  walls,  its  tur- 
rets, and  its  battlements  filled  her  with 
astonishment.  She  could  not  believe, 
she  said,  that  men  had  made  it.  Ber- 
tha laughed,  and  said,  "Men  were 
giants  in  those  days  " — a  fact  scarcely 
borne  out  by  history,  but  which  she  had 
drawn  from  a  volume  of  old  romaunts, 
the  only  book  besides  her  livre  cTheure* 
she  had  much  read. 

Isaure  pointed  out  to  Mina  the  dun- 
geons of  the  old  fortress.  "  There  is  a 
secret  chamber  beneath  the  tower,"  she 
said,  "  where  Elise  de  Sabran  was  mur- 
dered by  her  lover.  Her  ghost  is  some- 
times seen  on  the  turret  stairs,  and  it  is 
also  said  that  Roger  le  Jaune,  one  of 
our  ancestors,  died  of  hunger  in  the 
vaults  on  the  east  side  because  he  would 
not  betray  the  king's  secret." 


222 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"  I  should  like  to  see  Ms  ghost,"  said 
Mina,  earnestly.  "  He  must  have  been 
a  brave  man." 

"  Oh,  what  a  strange  idea  ! "  cried 
Bertha,  "to  want  to  see  a  ghost.  I 
should  not  like  a  visit  from  the  other 
world ;  not  even  from  a  saint,  I  think." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Isaure,  "Mademoi- 
selle hopes  the  ghost  of  Baron  Roger 
would  tell  her  the  king's  secret.  But 
you  would  have  to  ask  him.  Ghosts 
never  speak  first,  they  say." 

"  "Who  are  they  who  know  so  much 
of  ghosts,  fair  Isaure  ? "  cried  a  voice 
behind  the  speaker.  This  was  Raoul, 
who  had  watched  for  an  opportunity 
to  join  the  trio.  There  was  something 
catching  in  his  laugh ;  both  his  sisters 
and  Mina  joined  in  it,  though  Isaure 
scolded  him  for  startling  her.  A  bird 
flew  across  the  terrace,  and  Mina  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Oh,  should  you  not  like  to  be  that 
bird?" 

"  Why,  why,  mademoiselle  ? "  Raoul 
asked. 

"  Because  he  is  flying  over  the  walls." 

"  And  are  you  longing  to  go  beyond 
them,  Mademoiselle  Mina  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  The  country  looks  so 
pretty." 

"  Then  I  will  go  and  ask  the  three 
mothers — you  know  we  have  two  of  our 
own — if,  under  my  escort  and  protec- 
tion, the  young  ladies  may  issue  forth 
from  the  castle  walls  and  visit  the 
environs." 

He  went  on  his  errand,  and  Isaure 
said  to  Mina : 

"  Did  you  notice  my  brother's  horse 
this  morning  ?  It  is  reckoned  the  hand- 
somest gray  in  the  whole  province." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  he  has  such  a  beautiful 
arched  neck,  and  looks  so  spirited  and 
so  proud." 

"  And  do  you  not  think  Raoul  rides 
very  well  ? "  asked  Bertha,  in  her 
turn. 

"  Yes,  very  well  indeed.    He  and  his 


horse  seem  to  make  one,  like  the  statues 
of  Centaurs  in  the  galleries  at  Paris." 

"  I  think,"  said  Bertha,  "  Raoul  never 
looks  so  handsome  as  on  horseback." 

"He  is  the  best  brother  that  ever 
lived,"  said  Isaure. 

"  If  he  is  ever  so  good,  he  cannot  be 
better  than  mine,"  Mina  answered. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  one.  Raoul 
said  you  were  an  only  child." 

"  I  have  an  adopted  brother,  an  In- 
dian." 

"  Oh,  what  a  funny  thing ! "  exclaim- 
ed Bertha,  bursting  out  laughing,  "  to 
have  a  savage  for  a  brother." 

"  He  is  not  a  savage,"  said  Mina,  red- 
dening. "  He  is  as  good  as  any  white 
man  can  be." 

"  But  not  so  handsome  as  Raoul  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Ontara 
has  beautiful  eyes,  and  a  dark,  clear, 
brown  complexion." 

"  Oh,  how  frightful,  dear  Mina !  I 
would  not  for  all  the  world  exchange 
brothers  with  you." 

"  Nor  I  with  you,"  Mina  answered, 
with  warmth. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Bertha, 
laughing,  "  because,  if  Raoul  was  your 
brother,  he  could  not  be  your — " 

She  stopped  short  and  coloured. 

"My  what?"  Mina  asked,  with  a 
puzzled  look. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing.  It  was  old 
Nanette  put  it  into  my  head.  Never 
mind,  Isaure,"  she  said,  kissing  her 
sister,  "don't  look  so  grave;  I  have 
not  said  any  thing.  How  old  are  you, 
Mademoiselle  Mina  ? " 

"  Thirteen ;  but  pl^ise  do  not  call 
me  Mademoiselle.  Nobody  does.  You 
know  I  am  not  French.  I  am  an  Indian 
girl." 

"I  know,  a  Creole.  Brother,"  she 
said  to  Raoul,  who  had  returned  with 
the  desired  permission,  and  was  leading 
the  way  towards  the  castle  gate,  "  what 
do  you  guess  Mina's  age  to  be  ? " 

"I  cannot   guess,  sister,  because  I 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


223 


he  replied,  and  then  they  all 
t  out  through  the  entrance-court, 
conducted  their  guest  all  over  the 
urious  and  picturesque  ins  and  outs 
the  old  fortress,  which  had  been  by 
turned  into  a^  family  residence, 
ey  visited  the  quaint  parterres,  gay 
ith  every  variety  of  sweet-smelling 
nd  bright-coloured  flowers ;  the  bees 
nd  the  doves,  Isaure's  pets ;  and  Ber- 
a's  chickens ;  and  Raoul  took  them 
the  kennel  and  into  the  stables,  and 
ho  wed  Mina  the  dun  pony  which,  if 
8he  liked,  she  might  ride  the  next  day, 
a  thing  she  had  not  done  since  her 
father  used  to  carry  her  with  him  on 
iris  own  horse  at  St.  Agathe.  -The  walk 
was  a  pleasant  one,  and  Mina's  spirits 
rose  apace  in  the  society  of  her  new 
friends.  Their  liveliness;  their  gay, 
joyous  laughter,  the  exuberance  of  their 
youthful  spirits,  was  unlike  any  thing 
she  had  yet  known.  It  acted  upon  her 
like  refreshing  air  or  sparkling  wine 
on  an  exhausted  frame.  Raoul  was  the 
Igayest  of  them  all.  His  jokes,  his 
wtories,  his  nonsense,  the  good-humour- 
ed mischievousness  which  played  about 
his  handsome  face,  the  innocent  malice 
of  his  dark  eyes,  the  droll  questions  he 
put  to  her,  his  funny  views  of  people 
and  things  amused  and  charmed  her. 
There  had  been  in  her  life  so  little  of 
that  kind  of  merriment.  Wit,  and 
vivacity,  and  keen  encounters  of  the 
tongue,  she  had  witnessed  in  the  salon 
of  the  Hotel  d'Orgeville,  but  none  of 
the  bubbling  natural  overflow  of  glad- 
ness which  takes  its  source  in  innocent 
and  happy  hearts,  which  have  never 
been  in  contact  with  the  cares,  the  mis- 
eries, or  the  vices  of  the  'world.  When 
they  went  through  the  village,  the 
women  and  children  were  sitting  out 
of  doors,  enjoying  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing hour,  and  smiled  and  curtseyed  as 
the  young  seigneur  and  his  sisters  went 
by.  The  peasants,  returning  from  work, 
pulled  off  their  hats  and  said  "  Good 


night"  iii  the  patois  of  the  country. 
From  many  a  poor  person's  lips  she 
heard  a  blessing  invoked  upon  her  com- 
panions, and  good  wishes  for  the  young 
Isaure,  who  was  soon  to  go  forth  as  a 
bride  from  her  ancestral  home.  One 
old  woman,  leaning  on  her  staff,  said 
to  her  gossip,  who  was  watching  the 
young  people  down  the  streets : 

"Methinks  the  choir  children  may 
as  well  be  practising  a  welcome  as  a 
farewell  to  a  bride." 

"Ah!  bah!  Our  young  lord  is  too 
young  to  marry.  He  is  going  on  his 
travels  first." 

"Well,  I  saw  him  gathering  Made- 
leine's roses  for  that  blue-eyed  young 
lady  who  arrived  a  few  hours  ago  at 
the  castle ;  and,  if  monsieur  le  chevaliei 
is  not  paying  his  court  to  her,  I  am 
much  mistaken.  Madeleine  is  in  the 
third  heaven;  she  will  get  something 
handsome  for  her  flowers.  Look,  they 
are  going  into  the  church.  He  is  show- 
ing her  all  about  the  place.  We  shall 
see  them,  I  hope,  on  the  green  next 
Sunday  evening.  M.  le  Baron  likes  to 
see  the  boys  and  girls  at  play  after  ves- 
pers." 

"  Aye,  and  Mademoiselle  Isaure  is  to 
give  a  marriage  portion  to  the  best- 
behaved  girl  of  the  village.  A  little 
bird  has  whispered  to  me  that  your 
Jane's  eldest  daughter  is  to  be  the 
Xosiere." 

The  old  woman  wagged  her  head, 
and  laughed  at  her  gossip's  shrewd 
guess.  The  supper  bell  was  ringing 
when  the  young  people  returned  to  the 
castle.  It  was  served  in  a  hall,  where, 
at  a  long  table,  sat  all  the  baron's 
household,  as  well  as  his  family ;  gray- 
headed  serving  men  and  women,  with 
babies  on  their  knees;  and  boys  and 
girls  with  bright  sunny  faces,  looking 
both  good  and  happy.  Mina  sat  be- 
tween Bertha  and  Isaure,  and  Raoul  on 
the  opposite  side.  He  seldom  took  his 
eyes  off  her;  and  when  the  meal  was 


224 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


over  he  went  with  her  and  his  sisters 
to  the  parapet  which  formed  a  sort  of 
terrace  overhanging  the  moat.  There 
they  sat  on  the  stone  bench,  and  made 
Mina  describe  the  new  world  where  she 
had  lived  so  long — and  Bertha  and 
Raoul  listened  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
eager  eyes,  and  Isaure  cried  at  the  tales 
she  told  them  of  the  revolt  and  the 
destruction  of  the  Natches.  And  they 
all  wished  they  could  see  Ontara,  and 
would  have  liked  to  live  at  St.  Agathe 
if  Franc*e  had  not  been  their  native 
land  and  the  most  beautiful  country 
in  the  world.  Mina  fired  up  a  little  at 
this,  and  then  Raoul,  to  appease  her, 
said  that  he  had  certainly  never  seen 
North  America,  but  that  he  would  like 
very  much  to  go  there  one  day.  And 
then  she  would  not  be  outdone  in  civil- 
ity, and  admitted  that,  although  she 
hated  Paris,  the  country  in  France,  and 
particularly  the  Forez,  was  very  charm- 
ing. Then  Isaure  said  she  must  visit 
the  old  Abbey  of  Ste.  Odile,  and  the 
Roche  qui  pleure,  and  the  Shrine  of 
our  Lady  of  the  "Wood.  And  Bertha 
said  she  liked  the  Roche  qui  vire  better 
than  the  Roche  qui  pleure ;  and  a  dance 
on  the  village  green  better  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  world,  except  a  ball 
at  Montbrison,  the  only  one  she  had 
ever  been  to.  And  then  she  and  Raoul 
laughed  with  Isaure  about  that  ball, 
and  explained  to  Mina  what  the  joke 
was.  And  then  he  asked  her  if  she 
would  dance  with  him  a  minuet.  And 
she  said  she  did  not  know  how,  and  he 
offered  to  teach  her.  And  she  said  she 
was  too  stupid  to  learn — that  Made- 
moiselle d'Orgeville's  dancing-master 
had  said  so.  And  Raoul  made  a  dis- 
respectful speech  about  the  dancing- 
master,  and  Mina  laughed,  and  the 
sound  of  that  laugh  was  like  music  in 
her  mother's  ears  as  she  sat  working 
at  the  open  window  by  the  side  of 
Madame  de  la  Croix,  and  Madame 
Armand  played  on  the  spinnet  over 


and  over  again  the  baron's  favourite 
tunes,  whilst  he  dozed  in  his  great  arm- 
chair. The  stars  had  risen  one  by  one 
in  the  darkening  sky  and  the  great 
clock  of  the  castle  struck  nine.  Then 
the  laughter  was  hushed,  and  the  spin- 
net  shut  up,  and  after  night  prayers 
had  been  said,  every  soul  in  the  house 
withdrew  to  rest. 

Mina  sat  a  while  on  her  mother's  lap, 
great  tall  girl  as  she  was,  and  rested 
her  head  on  her  shoulder,  before  the 
shutters  were  closed  in  their  bed  cham- 
ber. The  perfume  of  the  jessamine 
which  covered  the  mullioned  windows 
was  filling  it  with  fragrance.  The 
moon  was  shining  on  the  red-brick 
floor,  and  throwing  changeful  lights 
on  the  tapestried  walls. 

"Don't  you  think  this  a  very  nice 
charming  place,  mamma?  and  our 
friends,  don't  you  like  them  very 
much?" 

"  Ah ! "  said  her  mother,  stroking 
her  cheek,  "  my  Mina  has  found  out  at 
last,  has  she,  that  white  people  can  be 
pleasant  ? " 

"  Yes,  they  are  very  pleasant,  and  so 
kind  to  me.  Isaure  told  me  a  beauti- 
ful story  about  the  fair-haired  Ennen- 
garde  and  her  daughter,  who  was  called, 
like  her,  Isaure — and  then  M.  Raoul 
said  there  was  another  Isaure,  who 
wrote  verses,  and  was  crowned  at  Tou- 
louse some  hundred  years  ago.  He 
laughed  about  ladies  writing  verses.  I 
did  not  tell  him,  and  have  never  told 
anybody  but  you,  mamma,  that  I  write 
verses  sometinllls." 

"But  as  you  will  never  sing  them 
before  great  crowds,  or  be  crowned  like 
Cle"mence  Isaure,"  answered  her  mother, 
laughing,  "  there  is  no  harm  in  it." 

"  No,  but  I  had  rather  M.  Raoul  did 
not  know." 

"Don't  be  afraid;  I  will  not  tell 
him." 

"Mamma,  to-morrow  I  am  to  ride 
the  dun  pony,  and  to  see  so  many  in- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


225 


teresting  things.  I  hope  it  will  be 
fine.  And  in  the  afternoon  we  are  to 
fish  in  that  pretty  little  stream  that 
runs  through  the  moat.  Have  you 
been  to  the  church,  mother  ?  Oh,  it  is 
such  a  beautiful,  grand  old  church, 
with  banners  in  it  and  shield,  and  the 
tornb  of  a  crusader,  of  a  Baron  de  la 
Croix,  who  went  to  the  Holy  Land 
with  Godfrey  de  Bouillon.  M.  Raoul 
says  he  took  leave  of  his  wife  at  the 
church  door  after  they  had  said  a  pray- 
er together  before  the  altar.  Mamma, 
when  he  said  that,  he  asked  me  if  I 
would  kneel  down  by  his  side,  at  the 
same  place,  and  say  a  prayer  that  what 
he  wished  might  happen.  I  asked  if 
it  was  a  good  thing  he  wished,  and  he 
said,  Yes.  So  I  did  what  he  asked. 
When  we  left  the  church  he  said — 
'Papa  and  mamma  were  married  at 
that  altar.  I  have  never  seen  my  fa- 
ther— he  died  before  I  was  born.' 
That  was  the  only  time  he  spoke  grave- 
ly, for  he  does  nothing  but  laugh,  and 
say  such  funny  things  that  he  makes 
me  laugh  too. .  Will  you  look  at  the 
crusader's  tomb  to-morrow  ?  and  please 
call  me  early,  dearest  mamma,  for  we 
are  to  ride  before  it  gets  hot,  Bertha 
says,  and  whilst  the  dew  is  on  the  grass." 

Madame  d'Auban  tenderly  pressed 
her  lips  on  her  daughter's  cheek.  Mina 
went  to  bed,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep. 
But  Madame  d'Auban  lay  awake, 
thinking  of  German  castles  and  haunt- 
ed chambers  and  of  palaces,  enclosing, 
even  as  in  living  graves,  warm  and  lov- 
ing hearts.  And  she  mused  on  her 
child's  destiny— her  lovely,  gifted 
child,  doomed  to  share  her  parents' 
strange  and  unsettled  existence.  It 
was  long  before  she  closed  her  eyes. 

it  in  the  morning  she  was  sleeping 
y,  when  Mina  bounded  down  the 
steps  leading  to  one  of  the  entrances  of 
the  parish  church,  which  stood  between 
the  court  of  the  castle  and  the  village. 

The  ride  proved  a  delightful  one  to 

15 


the  new  friends.  The  dun  pony  had 
carried  Bertha  and  Isaure  for  many 
years.  It  was  as  gentle  a  palfry  as  lady 
ever  rode.  Raoul,  mounted  on  his  fiery 
gray,  headed  the  cavalcade,  which 
went  winding  down  the  hill,  and  across 
the  fields  into  the  woods.  He  was  in 
the  highest  spirits,  in  spite  of  the  baron 
having  insisted  on  an  old  piqueur  es- 
corting the  party,  in  case  of  accidents 
— a  precaution  which  he  had  deemed  a 
reflection  on  his  own  prudence.  But 
his  good-humoured  resentment,  and  his 
outbreaks  of  indignation  at  Jacque 
Ferrand's  remonstrances  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  when  the  roads  were  getting 
bad,  and  M.  le  Chevalier  was  pushing 
on  too  fast  for  the  ladies  and  the  horses 
— "  only  too  fast  for  M.  Jacque's  own 
comfort,"  as  Raoul  whispered  to  Mina 
— only  heightened  the  excitement  and 
enjoyment  which  at  that  age  derives  its 
source  from  the  overflowing  joyousness 
of  youthful  hearts.  They  rode  through 
shady  nooks,  soft  green  valleys,  and 
smiling  villages.  They  drew  up  at  the 
top  of  a  hill,  to  look  at  the  view  of 
Montbrison  and  of  Moulins  in  the  dis- 
tance— the  spire  of  its  cathedral  rising 
against  the  deep  blue  sky.  They  dis- 
mounted to  explore  the  ruins  of  the 
abbey  in  the  wood,  and  said  a  Hail 
Mary  at  the  shrine,  which  was  a  favour- 
ite place  of  pilgrimage  throughout  the 
neighbourhood.  They  drank  of  the 
water  of  la  Roche  qui  pleure,  and 
breakfasted  on  milk  and  bread  and 
strawberries  from  a  neighbouring  farm. 
The  sun  was  getting  high  up  in  the 
horizon  as  they  returned,  skirting  the 
wood  just  within  the  shade,  alongside 
fields  of  waving  corn,  just  ripening  for 
the  sickle,  and  edged  by  the  fringe  of 
scarlet,  blue,  and  purple  flowers  which 
modem  improvements  are  gradually 
banishing  from  the  land. 

Mina  noticed  the  healthy,  happy 
looks  of  the  French  peasantry,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  aspect  of  the  Indians  and 


226 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


the  slaves  of  the  western  hemispheres. 
Raoul  asked  her,  as  they  were  drawing 
near  home,  if  she  would  not  like  al- 
ways to  live  in  France.  "  No,"  she 
said,  "  not  always ; "  and  then  looked  a 
little  thoughtful,  and  would  not  say 
where  she  wished  to  live.  There  was 
now,  even  as  there  always  had  been,  a 
singular  mixture  in  Mina  of  what  was 
not  so  much  childish  as  childlike ;  and 
of  thoughts  and  feelings  matured  be- 
yond her  age.  When,  in  the  afternoon, 
she  sat  by  the  trout  stream,  speaking 
under  her  breath,  for  fear  of  frighten- 
ing away  the  fishes,  and  laughing,  till 
she  almost  cried,  at  Bertha's  losing  her 
temper  with  them,  she  seemed,  except 
for  her  height,  perhaps,  even  younger 
than  she  was;  but  if  any  one  could 
have  read  the  thoughts  which  Raoul's 
question  had  awakened,  or  known  what 
subjects  were  often  occupying  her  mind, 
it  would  have  been  a  matter  of  aston- 
ishment that  one  so  young  should  be 
so  deep  a  thinker,  or  capable,  in  an 
emergency,  of  a  woman's  patience  and 
energy.  Days  of  brilliant  sunshine,  of 
country  air,  and  of  intercourse  with 
her  new  friends,  wonderfully  improved 
her  health.  Her  mother  watched  with 
delight  the  elasticity  of  her  step  and 
the  brightness  of  her  countenance. 
Everybody  in  the  castle  was  delighted 
with  the  little  Creole ;  and  as  to  the 
chevalier,  if  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her  at  first  sight,  every  hour  seemed  to 
add  to  the  intensity  of  his  boyish  pas- 
sion. -Finding  out  that  she  was  fond 
of  books,  he  proposed  one  wet  morning 
to  his  sisters  to  take  their  work  into 
the  library.  Isaure  gladly  consented. 
Roger's  speech  about  Clemence  Isaure 
had  awakened  a  literary  enthusiasm 
which  had  not  yet  subsided. 

The  library  contained  as  many  cases 
of  stuffed  birds  and  collections  of  in- 
sects as  books ;  but  there  was  a  curious 
set  of  old  romaunts  of  the  days  of  the 
troubadours  and  the  gay  "  savoir,"  and 


some  volumes  of  tales  of  chivalry,  which 
Raoul  had  read  over  and  over  again 
during  his  boyhood.  He  proposed  to 
amuse  the  ladies,  whilst  they  worked, 
with  the  history  of  Amadis  de  Gaule, 
and  Mina  listened  with  the  deepest 
attention  to  the  knight-errant's  adven- 
tures. Raoul  was  satisfied  with  her 
attention,  but  not  with  her  admira- 
tion. 

"  Mademoiselle  Mina,  would  you  not 
have  liked  to  live  in  those  days  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  But  I  don't  think  there  ever  were 
such  days,"  she  answered.  This  was  a 
view  of  the  subject  he  was  not  prepared 
to  admit. 

"  You  don't  think  there  were  knights- 
errant  and  tournaments,  and  ladies  in 
whose  honour  the  knights  broke  lances 
and  performed  prodigies  of  valour  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  not  enchanters  and 
giants,  such  as  Prince  Amadis  met 
with." 

"  Then  you  don't  like  this  story,  Mad- 
emoiselle Mina  ? " 

"Not  so  much  as  real  ones,  like  that 
of  Joan  of  Arc,  for  instance." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  one  of  the  few  amusing 
bits  of  history.  Battles  are  always 
good  fun.  I  got  a  prize  for  writing 
verses  on  the  battle  of  Fontenoy.  But 
real,  downright  histories  are  very  stu- 
pid. Do  not  you  hate  every  thing 
about  laws,  commerce,  art,  and  agri- 
culture?" 

"  Yesf  in  a  great  history  book,"  an- 
swered Mina,  laughing;  "but  I  like 
pictures  and  cornfields,  and  I  should 
like  a  law  that  would  prevent  people 
from  buying  and  selling  other  men.  I 
like  people  who  do  some  good." 

"  The  knights-errant  used  to  defend 
the  helpless,  and  punish  their  oppres- 
sors." 

"  Then  I  should  like  them." 

"  And  you  would  like  Raoul,"  whis- 
pered Bertha  in  Mina's  ear;  "he  is  so 
good  to  the  poor  and  to  little  children, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


227 


even  though  he  laughs  if  anybody  says 
so,  or  takes  notice  of  it." 

"No  secrets,  Mdlle.  Bertha,"  cried 
her  brother.  "  In  mamma's  book  on 
Politeness,  which  I  had  to  read  a  chap- 
ter of,  as  a  penance,  when  I  had  trans- 
gressed any  of  its  rules,  it  is  said  that 
whispering  in  company  is  forbidden." 

"  I  was  telling  Mina  bad  things  of 
you." 

"  Mademoiselle,  slandering  is  a  great 
sin ;  I  hope  M.  le  Cure  will  not  give 
you  absolution  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"  That  is  very  possible,  brother,  for  I 
am  not  at  all  disposed  to  retract  what 
I  have  said." 

The  sittings  in  the  library  led  to 
more  talking  than  reading.  The  hours 
went  by  very  fast,  and  the  days  also. 
Poor  Raoul  began  to  dread  M.  d'Au- 
ban's  arrival  as  the  greatest  misfortune, 
for  he  knew  it  would  be  speedily  fol- 
lowed by  the  departure  of  the  Dame  de 
sea  pensees.  All  sorts  of  schemes  were 
in  his  mind,  and  he  had  long  conversa- 
tions with  his  mother ;  and  his  spirits 
rose  very  much  (not  that  they  had  at 
any  time  much  fallen)  after  an  inter- 
view he  had  had  with  the  baron  on  the 
fourth  day  of  Mdlle.  d'Auban's  visit. 

The  evening  of  that  day  proved  very 
wet.  The  morning,  according  to 
Wordsworth's  lines,  "had  gone  forth 
deceitfully,  clad  in  radiant  vest ; "  but 
dark  clouds,  and  the  distant  rolling  of 
thunder,  and  a  first  few  heavy  drops, 
had  driven  the  young  people  home 
some  time  before  the  accustomed  hour.j 
After  supper  there  was  rain,  with  thun- 
der and  lightning.  The  ladies  drew 
round  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  worked. 

"This  is  just  an  evening  for  ghost 
stories,"  said  Bertha,  who  was  always 
the  first  to  propose  this  kind  of  amuse- 
ment, though  as  she  hastened  to  de- 
clare it  made  her  blood  run  cold,  and 
her  hair  stand  on  end,  when  her  grand- 
papa told  of  the  man  at  Moulins  who 


had  spent  a  night  in  the  churchyard, 
and  had  seen  three  different  spectres, 
the  one  more  awful  than  the  other. 
This  sort  of  conversation,  when  once 
set  going,  is  easily  carried  on.  They 
were  long-standing  stories  of  appari-' 
tions  which  the  baron  related  with 
great  effect,  and  Madame  de  la  Croix 
had  known  a  lady  who  had  seen  a 
ghost  with  her  own  eyes.  And  Raoul 
had  heard  at  college  a  strange  tale  of 
three  men  travelling  in  a  diligence, 
who  were  joined  by  three  others,  that 
looked  like  their  own  spectres,  and  did 
every  thing  that  they  did,  except  that 
they  never  eat  at  the  inns ;  but  they 
always  slipped  into  their  beds  before 
they  could  get  in  themselves,  only  when 
one  of  the  travellers  had  the  courage 
to  lie  down  as  if  there  was  nobody  be- 
side him,  he  found  the  ghost  did  not 
take  up  any  room,  and  he  slept  very 
comfortably.  But  the  next  day  the 
three  spectres  were  in  the  coach  again, 
and  .... 

"  Good  heavens  how  pale  you  look, 
my  dear,  you  are  as  white  as  a  sheet," 
exclaimed  Madame  Armand,  who  was 
sitting  opposite  to  Mina. 

"  Hush,  Raoul,  she  is  frightened  with 
these  dreadful  stories." 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  Mina.  Her 
face  was  quite  colourless,  and  she  seem- 
ed ready  to  faint. 

"It  is  nothing,  only  such  an  odd 
fancy,  mamma,"  she  said  to  Madame 
d'Auban,  who  had  taken  her  hand  and 
found  it  cold  and  trembling. 

"  You  used  not  to  be  frightened  at 
these  sort  of  tales  when  you  were  a  very 
little  girl,  Mina,  darling,  but  I  sup- 
pose— 

"  It  was  not  the  stories,  mamma,  only 
such  an  odd  fancy." 

"  Did  you  think  you  saw  any  thing  ? " 
said  her  young^  friends,  eagerly. 

"  Tou'd  better  not  talk  to  her  about 
it,"  said  Madame  d'Auban,  who  saw 
she  was  turning  pale  again. 


228 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"  Come,"  said  Madame  Armand,  "  I 
will  play  a  rondo,  and  you  shall  dance 
and  drive  the  ghosts  away." 

She  did  so,  and  Mina  joined  hands 
with  the  rest,  and  the  colour  returned 
to  her  cheeks,  and  she  sang  the  Ritour- 
nelle  with  the  others ;  but  her  mother 
observed  that  now  and  then  she 
glanced  timidly  towards  the  windows. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Madame  de  la 
Croix,  in  reply  to  some  observation  of 
her  husband's,  "  I  am  not  half  as  much 
afraid  of  ghosts  as  of  robbers.  I  had 
much  rather  hear  of  a  spectre  in  the 
neighbourhood,  than  of  Mandrin  and 
his  band." 

"My  dear,"  said  the  baron,  "you 
need  not  entertain  the  slightest  appre- 
hension on  that  subject.  Since  I  have 
been  appointed  Provost  of  the  Forez,  I 
have  taken  effectual  measures  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  have  twice  reviewed  the  rural 
force.  You  need  not  pretend  to  be  an 
esprit  fort.  I  am  sure  you  would  die 
of  terror  at  the  sight  of  a  ghost." 

"  How  gracefully  Mina  dances,"  said 
Madame  Armand  to  Madame  d'Auban. 
"  She  is  as  light  as  a  fairy.  Oh,  now, 
she  and  Raoul  are  going  to  practise 
the  Menuet  de  la  Cour,  dear  madame. 
Well,  I  think  you  and  I  may,  without 
foolish  vanity,  just  between  ourselves, 
agree  that  prettier  partners  were  never 
seen  than  my  black-eyed  chevalier  and 
your  blue-eyed  daughter." 

They  did  look  to  great  advantage 
during  that  dancing  lesson.  Mina  was 
taking  pains  to  learn  the  graceful  steps 
of  the  minuet,  and  smiled  so  prettily 
as  half-way  across  the  room  she  stop- 
ped to  curtsey  to  her  partner,  that  Ra- 
oul forgot  to  make  his  own  obeisance, 
and  clapped  his  hands.  She  stopped 
short,  and  laughing,  exclaimed,  "that 
is  not  fair."  Then  both  his  sisters 
scolded  him,  and  Madame  Armand 
played  the  rondo  again,  and  they 
danced  till  they  were  tired. 

"  Are  you  sure,  my  child,  that  you  are 


not  ill  ? "  Madame  dAuban  asked  her 
daughter  when  she  and  herself  had 
withdrawn  to  their  bedchamber. 

"  I  am  quite  well,  dearest  mamma." 

"  Then  were  you  frightened  with  the 
ghost  stories  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  did  not  mind  them." 

"But  then,  Mina,  love,  I  want  to 
know  what  made  you  turn  so  pale 
in  the  middle  of  Raoul's  ridiculous 
story." 

"  Mamma,  it  is  better  not  to  speak 
of  foolish  fancies.  I  am  sure  it  was  all 
imagination." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  the  best  way  to 
get  rid  of  a  fear  or  a  fancy  to  keep  it 
to  oneself.  We  can  often  drive  away 
troublesome  thoughts  by  telling  them." 

"  Mamma,  I  assure  you  I  don't  believe 
in  ghosts  and  apparitions.  But  I  sup- 
pose people  see  things  sometimes,  and 
that  it  is  all  a  mistake." 

Madame  d'Auban  felt  uneasy.  She 
had  a  lurking  belief  in  apparitions. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Mina,  what  did 
you  see  ? " 

"  Well,mamma,  I  was  looking  straight 
at  the  windows  of  the  parlour — the  one 
which  opens  on  to  the  parapet — when 
there  came  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  I 
saw,  as  distinctly  as  possible  it  seemed 
to  me,  a  face  looking  into  the  room,  and 
it  was  at  the  moment  at  least,  I  felt 
sure  it  was  Osseo's  face." 

"  The  Indian  Osseo,"  repeated  her 
mother,  apparently  relieved.  "O,  my 
darling,  I  have  no  doubt  then,  it  was 
an  ocular  delusion.  I  have  often  felt 
as  if  I  saw  about  my  bed  some  of  these 
terrible  dark  Natches'  faces.  They 
quite  haunted  me  at  one  time." 

"  I  had  never  thought  so  little  about 
America  as  since  we  have  been  staying 
here.  I  was  listening  to  M.  Raoul,  and 
wondering  about  his  travellers  and  their 
ghosts.  Then  all  at  once  I  saw  what  I 
thought  was  Osseo's  face ;  but  it  is  such 
a  brief  glimpse  of  any  thing  a  flash  of 
lightning  gives." 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE 


229 


"  You  did  not  hear  any  thing  about 
that  Osseo  before  leaving  Paris  ? " 

"  No,  mamma,  Ontara  did  not  know 
where  he  was.  He  ran  away,  you  re- 
member, the  day  they  landed  at  Mar- 
seilles." 

"  Your  mind  has  dwelt  so  much  upon 
Indians,  my  Mina,  that  it  is  not  won- 
derful you  should  see  them  in  imagin- 
ation." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  a  mistake," 
Mina  repeated,  and  nothing  more  passed 
between  her  mother  and  herself  on  that 
subject. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  family 
were  assembled  at  breakfast,  the  baron 
announced  with  exultation  that  he  had 
received  excellent  news  of  the  success 
of  the  rural  gendarmerie,  in  an  encoun- 
ter with  a  troup  of  Mandrin's  gang  in 
the  Forest  .of  Ludres.  Several  of  them 
had  been  taken  prisoners,  and  safely 
lodged  in  the  prison  at  Moulins.  Man- 
drin  himself  had  narrowly  escaped 
being  arrested.  It  was  supposed  he 
must  be  concealed  in  some  cave  or  pit 
in  the  same  neighbourhood. 

'J  Have  they  caught,  sir,"  Raoul  ask- 
ed, "that  incarnate  devil,  they  call 
Lohie?" 

Mina  and  her  mother  started,  and 
exchanged  glances. 

"Is  he  an  Indian?"  the  latter  in- 
quired. 

"  By  that  nom  de  guerre,  I  should 
think  so,"  answered  the  baron ;  "  for  I 
suppose  it  is  a  nom  de  guerre,  it  sounds 
like  it.  A  man  of  colour  he  certainly 
is,  unless  he  paints  his  face  to  keep  up 
a  sort  of  prestige.  He  is,  next  to  Man- 
drin  himself,  the  most  desperate  of  the 
gang.  They  call  him  his  lieutenant." 

"  Choiset  tells  me — he  is  our  game- 
keeper, ladies,"  Raoul  said;  "that  his 
eyes  glare  like  a  tiger-cat's.  He  knows 
a  man  who  saw  him  some  weeks  ago, 
and  who  he  says  relates  wonderful 
things  of  him.  He  is  supposed  to  bear 
a  charmed  life,  to  carry  about  him  some 


mysterious  talisman.  He  has  taken  the 
lead  of  late  in  all  Mandrin's  most  des- 
perate exploits,  and  always  escapes  the 
gendarmes'  clutches.  They  are  con- 
vinced he  is  a  devil." 

"  Aye,  and  if  they  catch  him,"  said 
the  baron,  "  he  runs  a  good  chance  of 
being  hung  like  a  dog  to  a  tree,  with- 
out trial  or  shrift." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Madame  d'Auban, 
hesitatingly,  "  if  he  can  be  the  Natches 
we  once  knew,  our  friend  Ontara's  com- 
panion till  they  landed  in  France.  His 
name  was  Osseo,  but  he  may  have  been 
called  Lohie  by  his  comrades.  Mina, 
my  child,  we  must  tell  M.  de  la  Croix 
that  you  think  you  saw  him  last  night." 

Mina  turned  crimson.  A  half-child- 
ish sense  of  fidelity,  and  compassion 
towards  a  persecuted  people,  made  her 
loth  to  say  a  word  which  might  lead 
to  Osseo's  apprehension.  He  was  On- 
tara's relative,  an  exile,  doomed  to  sla- 
very, and  ignorant  of  right  and  wrong. 
She  felt  more  pity  than  horror  of  him, 
robber  as  he  was.  "  Mamma,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  and  looking  reproach- 
fully at  her  mother,  "  we  thought  last 
night  it  was  a  mistake." 

"Yes,  love,  but  we  did  not  know 
what  we  do  now." 

The  baron  eagerly  asked  for  an  ex- 
planation, and  Madame  d'Auban,  seeing 
that  her  daughter  did  not  utter,  felt 
herself  of  course  obliged  to  tell  him 
exactly  what  she  had  heard  from  Mina 
on  the  previous  evening.  The  ladies 
of  the  chateau  turned  pale,  and  the 
baron  and  his  grandson  went  to  give 
orders  to  set  a  watch  round  the  castle, 
and  search  the  ruins  which  might  af- 
ford a  hiding-place  to  the  robbers.  Now 
that  he  was  on  his  guard,  he  prepared 
to  give  them  a  warm  reception,  and 
forbade  any  thing  being  said  which 
would  raise  an  alarm  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  prevent  their  attempting  an 
attack.  He  was  strongly  inclined  to 
believe  that  Mina  had  really  seen  Lohie, 


230 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


and  that  the  Indian  had  been  sent  to 
reconnoitre  the  approaches  of  the  castle. 

The  young  people  went  out  as  usual, 
but  Mina  was  silent  and  depressed. 
Raoul's  gaiety  jarred  upon  her.  Her 
thoughts  were  fixed  upon  the  vision 
of  the  day  before.  She  wondered  if 
the  Indian  still  carried  about  the  ser- 
pent in  his  bosom.  The  words  the 
baron  had  said  rung  in  her  ears :  "  Hung 
like  a  dog."  They  made  her  shudder. 
She  could  not  understand  that  her 
young  companions  did  not  feel  these 
sort  of  things  more.  They  did  not 
understand  her  anxiety.  "  If  Lohie  is 
Osseo,"  Raoul  said,  "  he  deserves  to  be 
broken  on  the  wheel;  for  he  tried  to 
make  you  his  slave,  the  vile  wretch.  I 
should  like  to  shoot  him  down  like  a 
wild  beast." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  ? "  said  Mina, 
indignantly.  "  What  would  become  of 
his  soul?" 

Raoul  was  a  little  puzzled.  He  said 
his  prayers  regularly,  and  meant  to  be 
good  and  save  his  own  soul,  but  had 
not  given  much  thought  to  those  of 
other  people,  especially  those  of  hea- 
thens and  robbers.  So  he  evaded  the 
question,  and  did  not  revert  to  the 
subject. 

As  they  were  returning  to  the  castle 
the  baron  met  them,  and  took  Mina 
into  the  hall.  He  asked  her  to  point 
out  the  exact  spot  where  she  had  seen 
that  limb  of  Satan,  Lohie.  She  showed 
him  the  window  at  which  she  had 
caught  sight  of  his  face.  Then  inspired 
with  a  sudden  courage,  she  said : 

"  M.  le  Baron,  will  you  tell  the  gen- 
darmes not  to  kill  Osseo  till  I  have 
spoken  to  him  ? " 

"  You  would  not  wish,  my  dear,  to 
speak  to  a  robber  ? " 

"  Oh,  but  I  would,  M.  le  Baron,  in- 
deed, indeed  I  would." 

"  He  is  an  outlaw,  like  the  rest  of  the 
gang,  and  our  men  may  destroy  them 
like  vermin.  But  I  have  given  orders 


that  if  this  Lohie  or  Osseo  is  caught  he 
should  be  brought  here  alive,  as  he  may 
give  information  as  to  the  others.  By 
the  bye,  Raoul  tells  me  you  speak  the 
language  of  these  savages,  Mademoi- 
selle Mina.  As  you  are  so  courageous, 
we  shall  get  you  to  examine  him." 

"  Shall  you  put  him  into  the  dun- 
geon ? "  she  asked. 

"  Take  care,  grandpapa,"  Bertha 
cried ;  "  Mina  will  let  him  out." 

The  baron  looked  grave. 

"  This  man  is  a  murderer  and  a  rob- 
ber. Mademoiselle  Mina  has  been  too 
well  brought  up,  I  am  sure,  to  pity 
such  a  wretch." 

Poor  Mina !  she  did  not  answer,  but 
she  longed  to  say  that  it  was  because 
this  man  was  a  murderer  and  a  robber, 
and  an  unbelieving,  unbaptized  hea- 
then, that  the  thought  of  his  sudden 
death  wrung  her  heart. 

The  day  went  by  somewhat  wearily ; 
and,  as  the  night  approached,  some  of 
the  inmates  of  the  castle  felt  restless 
and  anxious.  The  ladies  and  the  ser- 
vants had  related  to  one  another 
stories  of  robbers  and  assassins  till  they 
had  grown  so  nervous  that  a  foot-fall 
on  the  stairs,  or  the  rustling  of  leaves 
near  the  window,  made  them  start  and 
shudder. 

The  baron  desired  that  every  one 
should  go  to  bed  as  usual,  except  the 
sentries  to  whom  he  had  assigned  their 
several  posts.  Madame  d'Auban  and 
her  daughter  withdrew  to  their  room, 
and  both  fell  asleep  soon  after  going 
to  bed.  But  Mina  woke  in  about  an 
hour,  her  nerves  on  the  full  stretch, 
and  her  heart  beating  like  a  pendulum. 
For  two  hours  not  a  sound  disturbed 
the  tranquillity  of  the  night.  Then  a 
sort  of  faintness,  the  result  of  intense 
watching,  came  over  her.  She  slipped 
out  of  bed,  put  on  her  dressing  gown 
and  shoes,  and  a  mantle,  with  a  hood 
over  her  head.  The  door  of  the  bed- 
room opened  on  an  outward  winding 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


231 


staircase  leading  to  the  parapet.  She 
opened  it  gently,  and  stood  on  the 
steps  breathing  the  fresh  air.  There 
was  no  moon,  but  the  night  was  not 
very  dark :  a  few  stars  were  visible, 
when  the  clouds  divided  in  the  sombre 
sky.  She  stood  there  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  was  about  to  reenter  the  room, 
when  she  saw  a  figure  ascending  the 
steps  perfectly  noiselessly.  She  did 
not  move  or  scream,  but  said  in  a  low 
whisper,  "Osseo!" 

The  figure  stopped,  and  she  heard  it 
answer  in  the  Indian  language — 

"  Who  are  you  that  know  Osseo  ? " 

She  stepped  forward  and  said : 

"I  am  Mina.  In  the  city  of  the 
Natches«you  once  called  me  your  sister. 
Go  away ;  the  white  men  are  watching 
for  you,  and  will  kill  you.  Throw 
away  the  serpent,  Osseo :  leave  the 
wicked  tribe." 

"  I  have  shed  the  blood  of  the  white 
men,"  answered  the  Indian,  in  a  low  but 
distinct  whisper :  "  the  serpent  delivers 
them  into  my  hand.  But  the  sound  of 
thy  voice  is  like  water  to  the  parched 
lip.  O,  daughter  of  the  French  tribe, 
come  with  me  into  the  woods,  and  I 
will  shed  no  more  blood:  I  will  lie 
down  on  the  grass  and  listen  to  thy 
words." 

"Osseo,  in  the  name  of  the  Great 
Spirit  of  the  Christian's  prayer,  go  away 
before  my  people  kill  thee.  If  I  call 
out  they  will  come." 

"Maiden,  the  tribe  that  kills  and 
steals  is  at  hand,  and  if  I  whistle  they 
will  scale  the  wall  and  put  thy  people 
to  death.  But  come  with  me,  little 
bird  of  the  west :  I  will  hide  thee  from 
them  before  I  give  the  signal." 

"  They  cannot  come,  Osseo ;  they  can- 
not come.  There  are  armed  men  upon 
the  walls.  At  the  least  noise  they  will 
rush  upon  thee." 

"My  fetish  is  stronger  than  they 
are,"  whispered  the  Indian,  and  Mina 
eaw  him  feeling  in  his  bosom  for  the 


serpent.  She  shuddered,  and  stood 
transfixed  to  the  spot,  as  if  fascinated 
herself,  and  unable  to  raise  her  voice. 
There  was  a  minute's  silence.  Then  a 
flash  and  the  report  of  a  gun.  The 
Indian  had  seized  hold  of  the  serpent 
more  roughly  than  usual.  The  creature 
hissed,  and  sprang  to  his  throat.  He 
gave  a  violent  start,  and  his  gun,  which 
he  held  with  one  arm  against  his  shoul- 
der, slipped,  went  off,  and  wounded 
him  in  the  breast.  The  noise  roused  at 
once  all  the  sentinels,  and  the  baron 
and  Raoul  were  in  an  instant  on  the 
spot.  Torches  threw  light  on  the 
scene,  and  Mina  was  found  kneeling 
by  the  Indian's  side,  who  lay  appar- 
ently dead.  The  serpent  on  his  bosom 
was  lifeless  also.  But  when  they  took 
up  Osseo,  to  carry  him  into  the  hall,  it 
was  perceived  that  he  still  breathed, 
and  Mina  implored  the  baron  to  send 
for  a  priest.  Raoul  went  to  fetch  the 
cure,  and  her  mother  tried  to  take  her 
away ;  but  she  turned  round  with  an 
imploring  countenance,  and  said : 

"  Let  me  stay,  mother,  in  case  he  re- 
vives." 

And  the  priest,  who  arrived  at  that 
moment,  seconded  her  entreaties.  Raoul 
had  told  him  who  the  dying  man  was, 
and  how  anxious  Mina  was  about  his 
soul.  Nobody  quite  understood  what 
had  happened.  She  looked  for  the 
baron,  and  said : 

"He  told  me  before  the  gun  went 
off  that  the  robbers  were  close  at 
hand." 

"  Aye,"  said  he,  "  we  must  be  on  our 
guard,  then ;  but  the  sound  of  the  gun 
will  have  frightened  them  away,  I 
think.  But  how,  in  heaven's  name, 
my  child,  were  you  speaking  with  this 
wretch?" 

"  I  was  standing  at  the  door  of  our 
room,  to  get  air,  for  I  was  faint,  and  I 
saw  him  gliding  up  the  stairs.  I  called 
to  him,  and  told  him  who  I  was,  and 
begged  him  to  go  away—" 


232 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"  The  deuce  you  did  ! "  ejaculated 
the  Baron. 

"  But  he  would  not  go ;  and  as  he 
was  feeling  for  his  fetish — that  serpent 
you  see  there — his  gun  went  off." 

"  Hush  1 "  said  the  cure ;  "  I  think  he 
is  moaning." 

The  Indian  had  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  bystanders  with  a  half- 
fierce,  half-bewildered  gaze,  but  when 
he  saw  Mina  a  more  human  expression 
stole  over  his  features.  He  raised  his 
hand  to  his  mouth.  This  was  a  token 
he  recognized  her.  The  village  doctor, 
who  had  been  summoned,  felt  his  pulse, 
and  said  he  had  not  long  to  live.  The 
young  girl  bent  over  him,  and  in  ac- 
cents low  and  sweet,  spoke  to  him  in 
his  own  tongue.  The  hall  was  by  this 
time  crowded,  and  every  one  was  watch- 
ing the  dying  man  and  the  child,  and 
the  priest  standing  close  to  her.  A  pin 
might  have  been  heard  to  drop.  No 
one  uttered  a  word  but  herself,  and  no 
one  understood  what  she  was  saying 
except  the  dying  man,  whose  eyes 
fastened  themselves  intently  on  her 
face.  She  looked  inspired.  On  the 
ashy  paleness  of  her  cheek  a  red  spot 
deepened  into  crimson  as  her  emotion 
increased.  Sometimes  she  raised  her 
hand  and  pointed  to  the  sky.  Once  he 
felt  in  his  breast,  as  if  searching  for 
something  there.  She  took  up  the 
dead  serpent  and  showed  it  to  him, 
then  throwing  it  down  she  set  her  foot 
upon  it,  and  held  the  crucifix  before 
his  eyes.  Raoul  de  la  Croix  felt  at 
that  moment  a  thrilling  sensation  in 
his  heart  which  he  never  forgot.  He 
would  fain  have  fallen  at  her  feet ;  and 
her  own  mother  gazed  with  awe  on  her 
child.  At  last  the  Indian  spoke.  His 
strength  seemed  for  a  moment  to  rally. 
He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  took 
the  crucifix  in  his  hand,  and  touched 
his  forehead  with  it.  Then  in  her  ear 
he  murmured  a  few  words. 

"Monsieur   le    Cure,"    Mina  cried, 


"  he  asks  to  be  baptized.  He  believes 
now  in  the  Great  Spirit  who  died  for 
him.  He  is  very  sorry  to  have  robbed 
and  killed  His  children.  Oh,  M.  le 
Cure,  will  you  baptize  him  ? " 

Whilst  she  was  speaking,  a  spasm 
passed  over  Osseo's  face,  and  the  death- 
rattle  sounded  in  his  throat.  There 
was  no  time  to  lose.  The  priest  bap- 
tized him,  and  whilst  the  water  was 
still  flowing  on  his  brow,  the  poor 
ignorant  savage,  on  whom  a  ray  of 
light  had  shone  in  the  last  hour  of  his 
life,  died  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
crucifix  which  Mina  was  holding  in 
her  clasped  and  upraised  hands. 

Those  who  had  witnessed  this  scene 
had  been  deeply  impressed.  Mina  her- 
self did  not  seem  at  all  conscious  that 
she  had  been  admired,  or  even  much 
noticed,  on  account  of  the  part  she  had 
taken  in  it.  An  immense  weight  was 
off  her  mind,  and  during  the  days 
which  followed,  she  was  often  in  high 
spirits.  The  friendship  between  her 
and  the  young  de  la  Croix  grew  more 
and  more  close.  The  baron,  delighted 
at  the  result  of  Mandrin's  projected 
attack,  and  at  the  disappearance  of  his 
gang  from  the  Forez,  which  followed 
upon  his  lieutenant's  death,  could  afford 
to  forgive  Mina,  and  to  laugh  at  her 
for  her  connivance,  as  he  called  it, 
with  the  robbers.  Madame  d'Auban, 
mean  time,  was  counting  the  hours  till 
her  husband's  arrival.  He  had  written 
to  say  that  he  would  leave  Paris  in  two 
days.  No  positive  promise  had  been 
given  him  about  an  appointment  in 
Bourbon,  and  recent  circumstances  had 
made  him  averse  to  press  the  matter. 
He  had  accordingly  contented  himself 
with  obtaining  letters  of  introduction 
to  the  governor  and  .one  or  two  other 
French  residents  in  the  island.  He 
added,  that  he  had  sent  Antoine  to 
their  former  lodgings  in  the  Rue  de 
1'Ecu,  and  that  he  had  ascertained  that 
the  Comte  de  Saxe  had  called  there, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


233 


and  expressed  great  surprise  at  their 
departure.  The  landlord  had  told  him 
they  had  left  France  as  well  as  Paris, 
and  were  on  their  way  to  the  Isle  de 
Bourbon. 

When  Raoul  heard  that  M.  d'Auban 
was  expected  in  a  day  or  two,  he 
looked  more  thoughtful  than  he  had 
ever  done  in  his  life  before.  He  could 
scarcely  sit  still  a  moment ;  and  on  the 
morning  when  he  was  expected,  he 
rode  to  Montbrison  to  meet  him. 

As  he  walked  up  and  down  under 
the  plane  trees  of  the  promenade,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  years  instead  of 
days  had  elapsed  since  the  one  on 
which  he  had  handed  out  of  the  dili- 
gence Madame  d'Auban  and  Mina. 
When  the  same  cumbrous  vehicle  drove 
to  the  inn  door,  his  heart  beat  fast,  and 
before  Colonel  d'Auban  had  fairly  set 
foot  on  the  ground,  he  found  himself 
clasped  in  the  chevalier's  arms. 

"Ah!  my  young  friend,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  I  need  not  ask  who  you  are. 
The  warmth  of  your  welcome  would 
make  me  know  it,  even  if  you  were  not 
so  like  what  your  father  was  at  your 
age,  when  we  were  at  college  together." 

"Monsieur,  he  must  have  been 
younger  then  than  I  am  now,"  said 
Raoul,  who  did  not  like  to  be  consid- 
ered as  a  collegian. 

"  Ah  1  but  I  knew  him,  too,  after  we 
had  left  Vannes,  when  he  was  about  to 
be  married." 

"He  married  very  young  indeed," 
cried  Raoul,  eagerly  "when  he  was 
about  eighteen." 

D'Auban  then  inquired  after  the 
health  of  all  the  members  of  the  baron's 
family,  and  spoke  of  their  kindness  to 
his  wife  and  daughter. 

; Mademoiselle  Mina  is  an  angel!" 
Raoul  said,  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes. 

D'Auban  smiled,  and  then  they  both 
mounted  their  horses  and  rode  out  of 
the  town. 


D'Auban  was  delighted  with  his 
young  companion.  There  was  some- 
thing so  ingenuous,  so  frank,  and  so 
noble  about  him,  and  then  he  was  so 
evidently  in  love  with  his  little  Mina. 
He  related  the  story  of  Osseo's  death 
with  such  an  ardent  enthusiasm  about 
her  goodness  and  her  courage,  and  de- 
scribed how  beautiful  she  looked  by 
the  side  of  the  dying  Indian,  that  the 
father's  heart  was  touched,  and  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes. 

"  If  only,"  he  murmured  to  himself, 
"  if  only  the  spirit  does  not  wear  out  tho 
frame ! "  and  then  turning  playfully  to 
his  companion,  he  said  aloud,  "  I  had 
rather,  M.  Raoul,  she  had  been  playing 
at  dominoes  than  playing  the  heroine. 
She  has  had  enough  of  that  sort  of 
thing  for  a  child  like  her." 

"Ah!  she  is  not  a  child,  M.  le  Col- 
onel." » 

"I  fear  not.  Would  she  was,  my 
young  friend !  She  has  known  too 
early  what  it  is  to  suffer.  Is  she  look- 
ing well  ? "  d'Auban  anxiously  asked, 
for  he  did  not  like  to  think  of  the 
scene  she  had  gone  through. 

"  Oh  !  yes.  She  has  the  most  lovely 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  like  that  of  a 
deep  red  rose,  and  such  a  brilliant  light 
in  her  eyes ! " 

The  boy's  enthusiastic  description 
made  the  father  sigh.  But  when  Mina 
ran  out  into  the  court  of  the  castle  to 
meet  him,  he  was  satisfied.  She  was 
looking  stronger  than  in  Paris,  and 
seemed  very  happy.  After  receiving 
the  most  affectionate  greetings  from  all 
the  family,  and  seen  the  young  people 
go  off  on  a  fishing  excursion,  Mina  on 
the  dun  pony,  and  Bertha  on  a  gray 
one,  and  Raoul  walking  alongside  of 
them,  their  merry  voices  still  ringing 
in  his  ears,  he  drew  his  wife's  arm  in 
his  own,  and  they  went  into  the  par- 
terre to  take  a  quiet  stroll,  and  talk 
over  the  incidents  of  the  preceding 
days.  If  ever  there  was  an  instance  of 


234 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


the  romance  of  wedded  love  in  advanc- 
ing life,  and  amidst  the  many  changes 
it  had  brought  with  it,  this  was  one. 
These  two  beings  loved  each  other 
with  the  most  intense  of  all  affections 
— that  of  married  lovers.  The  dangers 
they  had  gone  through,  if  they  had 
not  added  to  the  intensity  of  that 
affection,  had  preserved  in  it  all  the 
freshness  of  its  romantic  beginnings. 

"  This  is  happiness,"  she  exclaimed, 
as  they  hurried  into  the  garden,  and 
sitting  down  on  a  bench  which  over- 
looked the  valley,  rested  her  head 
against  her  husband's  shoulder,  with  a 
sense  of  blissful  repose.  He  smiled, 
and  fondly  gazed  on  the  pale  fair  face 
so  passionately  loved. 

"  And  you  do  not  mind,  sweetheart," 
he  said,  "  that  we  are  poorer  than  ever, 
and  that  when  we  get  to  Bourbon  we 
may  fiave  to  live  in  a  small  cottage, 
and  in  a  very  different  manner  than  at 
St.  Agathe  ? " 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
malice,  "  you  are  going  to  ask  me,  M. 
d'Auban,  if  I  have  no  regrets  for  the 
King  of  France's  magnificent  offer,  or 
for  the  suite  of  apartments  I  was  to 
have  occupied  at  the  palace  of  Fontaine- 
bleau." 

He  laughed,  and  said,  "  It  must  be 
owned,  madame,  that  you  have  treated 
his  majesty  somewhat  unceremonious- 
ly." 

"  You  know  I  had  no  direct  message 
from  the  king.  But,  Henri,  you  have 
heard  of  Mina's  heroic  conduct  about 
the  poor  Indian  robber.  I  assure  you 
that  when  she  stood  that  night,  with 
her  little  foot  on  the  dead  serpent,  and 
the  cross  in  her  hand,  it  was  like  a 
heavenly  vision.  She  rises  before  me 
over  and  over  again  in  that  attitude, 
and  with  the  peculiar  look  in  her  eyes 
we  have  sometimes  noticed.  But  I 
have  something  to  communicate  to 
you.  What  will  you  think  of  it? 
Madame  Armand  de  la  Croix  has  been 


speaking  to  me  about  our  child.  It 
seemed  to  me  very  strange.  Our  own 
destiny  has  been  so  extraordinary,  and 
Mina  is  so  young  really,  though  she 
loots  grown  up,  that  a  regular  propo- 
sal of  marriage  for  her  took  me  by 
surprise." 

D'Auban  started,  and  looked  amaz- 
ed. 

"  A  proposal  of  marriage  for  Mina  ? " 

"  Yes ;  the  baron  is  about  to  ask  you 
for  her  hand  for  his  grandson." 

"  If  I  did  not  hear  it  from  you,  love, 
I  should  deem  it  impossible.  Raoul  is 
the  baron's  heir,  would  he  wed  him 
with  a  portionless  girl  ?  '• 

"  Madame  Armand  has  owned  to  me, 
that  a  heavy  debt  of  gratitude  is  due 
from  their  family  to  yours  ;  that  your 
grandfather  and  your  father  never 
would  accept  payment  of  the  large 
sum  which  at  the  time  of  the  League 
the  former  gave  as  a  ransom  for  the 
life  of  the  Baron  Charles  de  la  Croix ; 
but  that  the  debt  is  not  cancelled  in 
their  hearts  or  in  their  memories.  From 
the  moment  the  baron  heard  you  had  a 
daughter,  he  determined,  in  his  own 
mind,  that  the  Chevalier  Raoul  should 
marry  her,  and  since  they  have  known 
Mina  he  is  more  bent  upon  it  than 
ever." 

"  And  what  do  you  say  to  it,  mad- 
ame ?  Is  the  chevalier  a  good  match 
enough  for  your  daughter?  I  have 
always  resolved  to  leave  the  decision 
of  her  fate  in  your  hands." 

His  wife  smiled  and  answered,  "I 
ask  only  one  thing  for  my  child,  that 
she  should  be  free  to  accept  or  to  reject 
the  offer  made  for  her  hand.  The  two- 
fold experience  of  my  life  has  taught 
me  beyond  measure  to  value  freedom 
on  that  point;  I  would  not  for  the 
world  have  her  controlled." 

"  She  is  too  young  to  marry,  and  so 
is  he." 

"  Ah,  but  what  the  baron  proposes  is 
that  they  should  be  affianced  at  once, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


235 


and  then  that  the  chevalier  should 
travel  for  three  years — at  the  end  of 
that  time,  wherever  we  are,  he  will 
come  and  claim  his  bride." 

"I  see,  my  sweetest  wife,  that  the 
thought  of  this  marriage  pleases  you." 

"  I  do  not  deny  it.  If  I  could  have 
pictured  to  myself  a  fate  I  should  have 
chosen  for  Mina,  it  would  have  been  to 
enter  a  family  of  noble  but  yet  not  of 
princely  birth,  one  in,  which  I  have 
witnessed  the  most  admirable  virtues 
and  the  purest  domestic  happiness. 
Young  Raoul  is  handsome,  good,  and  I 
need  not  apologize  to  you,  Henri,  for 
adding,  though  others  might  laugh  at 
me — he  is  in  love  with  her." 

"  And  does  the  little  Dame  de  ses  pen- 
sees  return  his  passion  ? "  asked  d'Au- 
ban,  smiling. 

"  Ah  I  I  don't  know.  That  child  of 
ours  is  often  a  great  enigma  to  me. 
Open  and  guileless  as  she  is,  I  am  some- 
times at  a  loss  when  I  try  to  fathom 
the  depths  of  her  young  heart." 

"  Do  not  be  too  romantic,  sweet  wife. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  force  her  inclina- 
tions, but  at  her  age  assent  is  sufficient." 

"  You  know  no  French  young  lady 
ever  utters  a  stronger  form  of  approval 
of  the  suitor  presented  to  her  acceptance 
than  the  admission,  that  he  is  not  dis- 
agreeable to  her.  In  this  case  we  might 
rest  satisfied  with  it.  But  there  is  one 
consideration  I  cannot  quite  get  over. 
Is  not  the  Baron  de  la  Croix,  are  not 
all  his  family,  making  an  effort  of  gen- 
erosity in  asking  for  the  hand  of  our 
little  portionless  daughter?  It  is  so 
contrary  to  French  usages  for  a  young 
man  to  marry  a  girl  without  a  fortune, 
that  I  cannot  quite  rest  satisfied  that 
it  is  not  an  overstrained  point  of  honour 
which  alone  induces  them  to  make  this 
proposal." 

Madame  d'Auban  looked  a  little 
pained,  her  cheek  flushed.  "  Henri,  do 
you  give  me  credit  for  such  a  total 
absence  of  pride,  as  to  think  I  should 


have  spoken  as  I  have  done  if  I  had 
not  seen  beyond  a  doubt  that  the 
hearts  of  your  friends  are  set  upon 
this  marriage ;— had  I  not  heard  from 
Raoul's  mother,  expressions  which  sel- 
dom fall  in  these  days  from  the  lips  of 
French  mothers,  as  to  her  hopes  and 
fears  for  the  darling  of  her  heart;  as 
to  her  knowledge  of  what  Mina  is,  and 
her  intense  desire  that  his  destiny  should 
be  united  to  hers  ?  She  never  mentions 
our  child  since  the  night  of  Osseo's 
death  without  tears  in  her  eyes.  But 
far  be  it  from  me,  however,  to  urge 
you  .  .  ." 

"Enough,  dearest,  enough.  I  am 
more  than  satisfied,"  exclaimed  d'Au- 
ban, who  felt  he  had  unintentionally 
slightly  wounded  his  wife's  feelings. 
Any  destiny  out  of  the  common  order, 
any  transgression  of  the  usual  laws  of 
society,  even  under  the  most  favourable 
circumstances,  at  certain  moments, 
sometimes  long  after  old  feelings  and 
habits  of  mind  have  been  apparently 
eradicated,  tends  to  arouse  slight  emo- 
tions, delicate  susceptibilities,  which 
are  like  faint  traces  left  on  the  soul  of 
what  once  has  been,  visible  only  by 
certain  lights." 

A  conversation  d'Auban  held  that 
evening  with  the  Baron  proved  to  him 
the  justice  of  his  wife's  appreciation  of 
the  old  man's  real  feelings ;  he  was  so 
thoroughly  happy  at  the  thoughts  of 
an  alliance  with  the  family  to  which 
his  own  had  owed  so  much,  so  full  of 
delight  at  acquitting  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude as  regarded  the  past,  and  he  kind- 
ly added,  pressing  his  friend's  hand  in 
both  his,  "  in  incurring  a  fresh  one  in 
the  shape  of  the  holy  and  beautiful 
child  he  asked  of  them  for  his  Raoul," 
that  it  would  have  been  playing  an 
unkind  and  ungracious  part  to  reject, 
from  a  false  delicacy,  the  proposal  BO 
cordially  made.  He  seemed  a  little 
surprised,  indeed,  when  d'Auban  stipu- 
lated that  the  betrothal  was  not  to 


236 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE 


take  place  unless  his  little  girl  gave 
her  full  and  free  assent  to  it, — that  her 
mother  had  made  him  promise  this. 

"  But  .surely,"  said  the  Baron,  "  a 
young  lady  as  well  educated  as  Made- 
moiselle Mina,  and  of  as  amiable  a  dis- 
position, would  never  dream  of  oppos- 
ing her  parents'  wishes  on  such  a  sub- 
ject." 

"My  best  of  friends,"  d'Auban  an- 
swered, uMina's  education,  not  a  bad 
one,  thank  God,  has  yet  been  in  many 
respects  peculiar.  Events,  more  than 
teaching,  have  formed  her  character. 
She  would  doubtless  obey  our  orders, 
but  her  mother's  ideas  on  that  point 
are  strong,  and  she  would  never  compel 
her  daughter  to  marry,  or  to  promise 
her  hand  to  any  one  she  did  not  herself 
freely  choose." 

The  idea  of  young  ladies  choosing 
their  husbands  was  quite  a  new  one  to 
the  baron,  and  utterly  distasteful  to 
him.  He  would  like  to  see  Bertha  and 
Isaure  think  of  choosing  for  themselves, 
indeed !  And  as  to  Raoul,  when  he 
had  informed  him  that  he  was  about 
to  ask  for  Mademoiselle  d' Auban's  hand 
for  him,  he  had  behaved  as  well  as  pos- 
sible, and  expressed  his  perfect  submis- 
sion to  his  grandfather's  wishes. 

"  But  I  suppose  your  daughter  is  not 
likely  to  object  to  the  chevalier,"  he 
said.  "He  has,  I  hope,  made  himself 
agreeable  to  her  since  she  arrived 
here  ? "  • 

"I  should  think  your  grandson  as 
likely  as  any  youth  I  have  ever  seen  to 
win  a  young  lady's  heart,"  answered 
d'Auban;  "and  I  trust  that  I  may 
have  the  happiness  of  calling  him  my 
son." 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day, 
which  was  to  be  the  last  but  one  they 
were  to  spend  at  the  Chateau  de  la 
Croix,  Madame  d'Auban  sent  for  her 
daughter  into  her  room  from  the  library, 
where  she  had  gone  with  Isaure,  to 
copy  some  passages  out  of  an  old  book 


of  poetry  they  had  been  reading  to- 
gether, and  when  Mina  came  bounding 
into  the  room  she  found  her  father  and 
mother  sitting  together.  They  made 
room  fqr  her  between  them,  and  he 
said  to  her : 

"  Have  you  been  very  happy  here,  my 
daughter  ? " 

"Yes;  very  happy,"  she  answered. 
"  Everybody  has  been  so  kind  to  me, 
and  I  love  them  all  very  much." 

"  They  are  all  very  fond  of  you,  Mina. 
The  Baron  has  been  speaking  to  me 
about  you." 

"  I  was  afraid  he  was  a  little  angry 
with  me,  because  I  told  Osseo  to  go 
away,  instead  of  calling  to  the  senti- 
nels." 

"Well,  he  seems  to  have  forgiven 
you.  He  told  me  you  were  a  brave 
little  girl.  I  suppose  you  will  be  sorry 
to  part  with  Isaure  and  Bertha  ? " 

"  Yes ;  and  with  Raoul  also." 

"Ah  !  you  like  him.  I  am  glad  of 
that.  I  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
Raoul.  He  is  very  pleasing,  and  so 
good  and  noble-hearted." 

"  He  ought  to  be  good,  for  his  moth- 
er, oh,  dearest  papa!  she  is  quite  a 
saint.  I  like  so  much  to  watch  her 
when  she  is  speaking  to  a  poor  person, 
or  dressing  their  wounds.  There  is  a 
little  room,  quite  out  of  the  way,  where 
they  come  to  her  every  morning ;  but 
I  know  where  it  is,  and  she  lets  me  help 
her.  She  does  not  speak  much,  but 
the  few  words  she  says  are  full  of  love 
and  sweetness." 

"  Then  you  would  be  glad  to  live 
some  day  with  Madame  Armand  ? " 

"  I  would  give  the  world  to  be  like 
her." 

"  Then  I  think  you  will  be  glad  to 
hear,  my  daughter,  that  she  would  like 
to  call  you  her  child  ? " 

"Would  she?"  answered  Mina,  in- 
nocently ;  "  then  I  wish  she  would." 

"  What  I  mean  is  that  she  and  the 
Baron  want  you  some  time  hence  to 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRlJE. 


237 


marry  Raoul,  and  to  be  at  once  affianced 
to  him." 

Madame  d'  Auban's  heart  beat  fast  as 
her  husband  said  this.  Mina  drew  her 
arm  from  her  neck  and  her  hand  from 
her  father's,  and  sat  up  between  them 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  and 
the  colour  deepening  in  her  cheeks. 
She  did  not  speak.  They  remained 
silent  also  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
her  mother  said : 

"What  is  my  Mina  thinking  of? 
Tell  us,  dearest,  will  you  promise  to 
marry  Raoul  ? " 

"  No — no,  I  cannot  promise  to  marry 
him.  Oh,  dearest  papa,  dearest  mam- 
ma, do  not  ask  me." 

"And  why  not,  Mina?"  said  d'Au- 
ban,  looking  vexed  and  disappointed. 

"  Because,  papa,  it  would  make  me 
miserable;  because"  ...  a  flood  of 
tears  stopped  her  utterance.  She  wept 
with  what  seemed  passionate  sorrow. 

"  My  child,"  said  her  mother,  anx- 
iously, "  speak,  explain  to  us  what  you 
feel." 

"  Mamma,  do  you  remember  my  tell- 
ing you  long  ago  that  I  would  never 
marry  a  white  man  ? " 

"  Oh,  Mina,  that  old  childish  story  1 " 
exclaimed  her  mother;  and  her  father 
said  with  impetuosity : 

"You  are  no  longer  a  child,  my 
daughter;  and  I  cannot  brook  this 
infatuation  about  Indians.  You  do 
not  suppose  that  we  should  ever  con- 
sent to  give  our  daughter  in  marriage 
to  a  red  man  ? " 

"  I  know  you  would  not,  papa,  and 
I  will  never  ask  you  to  do  so.  But  I 
wish  to  keep  my  promise." 

"  A  child's  promise  1  which  does  not 
bind  you  in  the  least,  Mina." 

"  Then,  mamma,  if  I  am  too  young 
to  be  bound  by  one  promise,  do  not 
tell  me  to  make  another.  I  told  On- 
tara  I  could  not  marry  him,  when  we 
were  at  the  Natches ;  and  after  he  was 
baptized  in  Paris  I  said  so  again :  but 


when  he  was  unhappy  I  promised  never 
to  marry  at  all,  and  to  be  always  his 
sister;  and  it  comforted  him  a  little. 
Mamma,  don't  you  remember  that  one 
day  in  Paris,  when  Julie  d'Orgeville 
had  been  talking  to  me  about  her 
cousin  Jeanne  being  forced  to  marry 
the  old  Count  d'Hervilliere,  and  I  asked 
you  if  you  would  make  me  marry 
against  my  will,  you  said,  never  f  And, 
mamma,  when  you  said  it,  I  don't 
know  why,  but  there  were  tears  in 
your  eyes,  and  you  added,  'No,  my 
own,  you  will  never  know  what  it  is 
to  wear  gilded  chains. ' " 

"  But  Mina,  darling,  you  like  Raoul, 
and  you  would  be  very  happy  with 
him." 

A  troubled  look  came  into  little 
Mina's  face ;  some  large  tears  gathered 
in  her  eyes.  She  heaved  two  or  three 
deep  sighs,  and  then  hiding  her  face  in 
her  mother's  bosom,  she  murmured : 

"  I  could  not  be  happy  if  I  broke  my 
promise." 

Madame  d'Auban  fondly  pressed  her 
lips  on  her  head,  and,  looking  at  her 
husband,  smiled.  Her  womanly  in- 
stinct was  not  at  fault.  She  guessed 
what  was  passing  in  the  child's 
heart. 

"  Mina,"  said  her  father,  gravely,  "  if 
it  is  that  foolish  promise  that  weighs 
on  your  mind,  Ontara  would,  I  am  sure, 
relieve  yo.u  from  it." 

Madame  d'Auban  shook  her  head. 

Mina  started  up.  "Oh,  papa,  that 
would  not  be  really  keeping  it.  If  you 
order  me  to  break  it  in  that  way  I  must, 
but  my  heart  will  break  too.  Mamma, 
you  remember  the  day  you  took  his 
hand  and  put  it  on  my  head,  when 
Osseo  was  going  to  force  me  away  from 
you?  We  were  friendless  then;  we 
were  prisoners;  and  he  had  parents 
and  friends,  and  brothers  and  sisters. 
We  were  condemned  to  death,  and  he 
saved  me.  He  saved  papa,  who  saved 
us  all.  And  now  he  has  only  me — only 


238 


TOt)     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


me  to  love  him,  I  must  keep  my  prom- 
ise." 

"  Mina,"  said  her  father,  sitting  down 
again  by  her,  "  you  are  too  young  to 
understand  what  you  give  up  when 
you  say  you  will  never  marry." 

The  heavenly  expression  they  some- 
times noticed  in  their  child's  face  shone 
in  it,  as  she  looked  up  and  said : 

"  I  would  give  up  any  thing  to  keep 
that  promise." 

"  And  if,  which  I  never  shall,  I  was 
to  say  you  might  marry  Ontara,  would 
you  marry  him  ?  " 

Mina  closed  her  eyes,  thought  a 
moment,  and  then  said  "  Yes,"  but  in 
a  tone  that  made  her  mother  thrill  all 
over,  there  was  something  so  peculiar 
in  the  child's  way  of  saying  it. 

She  made  a  sign  to  her  husband  not 
to  press  the  matter  further;  and  they 
talked  to  her  gently  and  soothingly, 
and  said  she  should  not  be  asked  to 
make  any  promise  to  Raoul  or  any  one 
else;  that  she  might  remain  a  child 
for  some  years  to  come,  and  plant  flow- 
ers and  sow  seeds  in  a  cottage  garden 
at  St.  Denys. 

She  kissed  them  and  went  straight 
out  on  the  steps  which  led  to  the 
church.  At  that  moment  Madame 


Armand's  poor    people  were  passing 
through  the  gate  on  their  way  to  the 
room  where  she  received  them.    A  we 
man  was  staggering  under  the  wei| 
of  a  sick  child,  and  seemed  ready 
drop. 

Raoul,  who  was  passing  through  th( 
court  with  his  dogs,  whistling  a  mei 
tune,  caught  sight  of  the  beggar,  an< 
taking  her  baby  in  his  arms,  carried  ii 
to  his  mother.  It  was  one  of  those 
indeliberate  impulses  which  show  the 
tone  of  a  man's  feelings.  He  was  off 
again  in  a  moment,  not,  however,  be- 
fore he  had  slipped  an  alms  into  the 
woman's  hand.  He  seemed  to  tread  on 
air,  his  handsome  face  was  beaming 
with  animation,  and  snatches  of  an  old 
French  song  burst  from  his-  lips  as  he 
passed  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  He  did 
not  see  Mina,  who  had  been  watching 
the  little  scene.  She  went  into  the 
church,  and  prayed  a  long  time.  It  is 
said  that  St.  Catherine  of  Sienna,  in 
one  of  her  mysterious  visions,  was 
offered  her  choice  of  a  crown  of  roses 
and  a  crown  of  thorns.  She  chose  the 
last,  because  it  was  like  the  one  our 
Lord  had  worn.  Had  two  different 
visions  also  passed  before  Mina's  eyes, 
and  had  she  made  a  similar  choice  ? 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


239 


CHAPTEE    IX. 

Bo  rich  a  close, 
Too  seldom  crowns  with  peace  affliction's  woes. 

Mrs.  ffemant. 

How  often,  oh,  how  often, 
I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom, 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  1 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 

And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 
And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea, 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 


IT  had  not  been  easy  to  induce  the 
Baron  de  la  Croix  to  give  up  his  fa- 
vourite idea  of  a  betrothal  between 
Raoul  and  Mina ;  but  her  parents  and 
Madame  Armand,  to  whom  Madame 
d'Auban  had  confided  the  grounds  of 
her  daughter's  refusal,  and  her  own 
belief  that  time  would  overcome  her 
determination  to  lead  a  single  life,  out 
of  fidelity  to  her  promise  and  affection 
for  her  deliverer,  found  means  to  per- 
suade M.  de  la  Croix  that  the  engage- 
ment must  be  deferred,  and  the  ring  of 
espousals  which  he  had  sent  for  from 
Moulins  put  aside  for  the  present. 

D'Auban  assumed  him  that,  on  the 
whole,  it  was  better  the  young  people 
should  be  free  till  they  met  again  in 
two  or  three  years,  and  could  better 
judge  of  their  own  feelings. 

"  But  I  never  heard  of  feelings  in  my 
youth,"  cried  the  baron.  "  The  will  of 
my  father  was  the  only  feeling  spoken 
of  when  I  married  Madame  de  la  Croix ; 
and  nothing  ever  answered  better  than 
our  marriage.  But  let  it  be  as  you 
wish.  Wherever  you  are  in  three 
years'  time — whether  at  the  north  or 


Longfellow. 

the  south  pole — I  shall  send  Raoul  to 
ask  for  the  hand  of  that  pretty  little 
heroine  of  yours,  who,  I  hope,  will  not 
have  found  out  by  that  time  that  she 
has  feelings  of  her  own.  Feelings,  for- 
sooth !  do  you  know,  my  dear  d'Au- 
ban, that  you  have  gained  some  strange 
ideas  in  the  New  World  ? " 

"  Or  by  staying  out  of  the  Old  one, 
my  dear  baron.  It  is  wonderful  how 
absence  modifies  one's  views  of  certain 
things.  It  takes  time  to  tune  oneself 
to  the  key  of  European  civilization." 

"  Your  daughter  finds  Raoul  agreea- 
ble, I  hope?" 

"Indeed,  she  does;  but  truly,  my 
dear  friend,  she  is  too  much  of  a  child 
fully  to  appreciate  yet  the  honour  you 
do  her." 

"  But  why  is  she  then  so  tall  ?  she 
takes  one  in." 

"  Ah !  she  has  seen  and  felt  too  much 
for  one  so  young." 

"Ah!  feeling  again!  Feeling  and 
thinking  will  be  the  ruin  of  the  present 
generation." 

There  was  truth,  in  one  sense,  in  the 
Baron's  observation.  The  thinking  of 


240 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO. BE    TRUE. 


Voltaire,  and  the  feeling  of  Rousseau, 
made  wild  havoc  with  the  happiness 
and  the  virtue  of  the  French  people. 
Wit  and  sentiment  are  powerful  agents 
when  arrayed  on  the  side  of  infidelity 
and  vice.  The  old  emigre  who  said  to 
Madame  de  Coigny,  one  of  the  cleverest 
women  of  the  beginning  of  this  cen- 
tury, "  Madame,  ce  sont  les  gens  <P  esprit 
qui  ont  perdu  la  France  I "  was  not, 
perhaps,  altogether  wrong,  though  it 
must  have  been  tempting  to  answer, 
as  she  did,  "  Ah,  monsieur  I  et  pourguoi 
done  ne  Vavez-wus  pas  sauvee!"  But 
poor  Mina's  feelings  were  not  of  Rous- 
seau's, or-  her  father's  philosophy  of 
Voltaire's  school ;  the  Baron  was  quite 
satisfied  that  she  was  a  modest  and 
guileless  child,  and  that  his  old  friend 
was  as  staunch  a  Catholic  as  ever 
lived  ;  but  there  was  something  he  did 
not  quite  understand  about  them,  some- 
thing a  little  ahead  of  his  own  ideas  of 
right  and  wrong ;  and  it  is  curious  how 
suspicious  men  are  of  what  goes  beyond 
their  own  standard,  as  much,  and  often 
more,  than  of  what  falls  below  it. 

Raoul  was  very  angry  and  very  un- 
happy when  his  mother  told  him  little 
Mina  would  not  promise  to  marry  him ; 
and  he  took  a  long  walk  by  himself, 
and  would  not  speak  to  her  all  the 
evening.  But  before  she  went  away, 
they  made  friends  again,  and  she  rode 
that  last  day  the  dun  pony  once  more, 
and  two  or  three  times  he  saw  her  large 
dark  blue  eyes  filling  with  tears,  as 
Bertha  and  Isaure  said  affectionate 
things  to  her.  And  when  he  whis- 
pered, as  he  helped  her  off  her  horse  in 
the  court  of  the  castle,  "  You  are  not 
sorry  to  part  with  me,  Mina ;  you  care 
only  for  my  sisters ! "  she  blushed  deep- 
ly, and  said,  "  I  do  care  for  you,  Raoul 
—only—" 

"  Only  what  ? "  he  asked,  as  they  both 
stood  by  the  pony,  patting  his  head. 
'   She  did  not  speak,  her  heart  was  so 
full ;  she  was  afraid  of  crying. 


"  Only  you  like  a  savage  better  than 
me.  Oh,  Mina,  I  cannot  forgive  you." 

"  I  never  said  so,"  she  said,  hiding 
her  face  in  the  pony's  mane. 

"  I  know  all  about  it,"  he  said,  stamp- 
ing his  foot.  "  I  guessed  it  immediate- 
ly. I  should  like  to  call  him  out." 

"  Oh,  Raoul ! "  she  said,  raising  her 
tearful  eyes  to  his,  "who  is  a  savage 
now?" 

"  But  I  cannot  bear  you  to  love  him 
better  than  me." 

"There  are  such  different  kinds  of 
love.  You  never  saved  my  life ;  you 
never  adopted  me;  you  are  not  alone 
in  the  world  ;  you  have  every  thing  to 
make  you  happy,  and  he  has  nothing." 

"  If  he  has  your  love,  Mina,  he  has 
every  thing  I  care  to  have.  But  you  say 
you  have  a  kind  of  love  for  me.  What 
sort  of  a  love  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  should  like  to  die 
for  him,  if  it  would  make  him  happy." 

"  But  you  would  like  to  spend  your 
life  with  me — to  be  my  wife  ? " 

"  No ;  I  will  never  be  anybody's 
wife." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that,  Mina.  But 
will  you  make  me  a  promise?  Will 
you  promise  not  to  marry  anybody 
else,  till  I  come  in  three  years  to  see 
you  in  the  Isle  de  Bourbon  ? " 

"I  don't  like  to  make  any  more 
promises,"  Mina  answered  sadly.  "I 
do  not  think  promises  are  good  things. 
One  must  keep  them,  you  know,  Raoul. 
But  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  marry  till  you 
come." 

This  was  said  with  a  look  which  was 
very  like  a  promise.  He  felt  it  as  such, 
and  he  told  his  mother  so.  And  after 
Mina  went  away,  he  was  always  think- 
ing of  these  words,  and  of  her  look 
when  they  were  said.  And  he  often 
patted  the  dun  pony,  and  fed  it  out  of 
his  hand ;  and  his  sisters  smiled  when 
they  saw  how  fond  he  was  of  it ;  and 
Isaure  peeped  into  his  room,  one  day, 
and  saw  on  his  table  the  book  of  old 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


241 


romaunts  he  used  to  read  to  them  in 
the  library,  and  the  life  of  Father  Cla- 
ver,  which  Mina  had  forgot  in  hers. 
She  was  very  sorry  when  she  missed 
it.  It  was  the  book  Ontara  and  she 
were  to  finish  reading  when  they  met 
again,  and  she  had  left  it  behind  at 
the  chateau.  Had  she  left  any  thing 
else  behind?  Not  that  she  knew  of, 
but  her  mother  sometimes  thought  so. 

Some  months  elapsed,  and  a  ship 
was  nearing  the  Isle  de  Bourbon.  The 
passengers  were  standing  on  deck 
watching  the  coast  becoming  every 
moment  more  distinct.  This  vessel 
had  had  a  long  and  wearisome  passage. 
For  three  weeks  it  had  been  becalmed. 
Madame  d'Auban  thought  of  her  voy- 
age to  America  with  the  German  emi- 
grants, when  her  despair  was  at  its 
height,  and  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  complain  now  of  the  deep 
stillness  which  reigned  on  the  sea ;  of 
the  breezeless  days  and  the  sultry 
nights.  Not  but  that  she  and  her 
husband  had  anxious  thoughts  about 
the  future.  Not  but  that  she  dreaded, 
she  scarcely  knew  why,  the  arrival  at 
Bourbon.  She  had  a  presentiment — 
d'Auban  had  never  persuaded  her  out 
of  her  belief  in  them — that  a  crisis  in 
their  fate  was  at  hand ;  and  perhaps, 
in  spite  of  all  the  inconveniences  of  the 
voyage,  she  dreaded  its  coming  to  an 
end.  But  now  the  shores  of  the.  fair 
island,  its  verdant  undulating  hills  with 
their  grand  background  of  mountains, 
rose  before  their  eyes  as  they  went 
on  deck  at  sunrise.  St.  Andre"  and 
S**-  Suzanne,  and  the  bright  little  river 
of  St.  Jean,  and  St.  Denys,  the  town 
where  they  were  to  land,  were  succes- 
sively pointed  out  to  them.  As  they 
drew  nearer  they  discerned  the  negroes 
at  work  in  the  fields,  and  the  planters' 
houses,  and  the  people  almost  all  dressed 
in  white,  and  wearing  straw  hats. 

"  Oh,  mamma  1 "  Mina  exclaimed, 
"  there  is  a  concession,  and  such  a  pretty 
16 


habitation  1  And,  oh,  look  at  those 
palm-trees,  and  at  those  pines,  and  at 
the  oleanders  and  the  orange-trees,  and 
the  black  women  gathering  the  blos- 
soms. Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  Is  it  not 
like  Louisiana  ? " 

As  the  ship  glided  into  the  port, 
crowds  gathered  at  the  landing-place 
to  watch  the  disembarkation  of  the 
numerous  passengers.  A  government 
officer  came  on  board  to  examine  the 
passports.  They  were  handed  to  him, 
and  as  he  read  the  names,  he  also  atten- 
tively looked  at  the  persons  who  pre- 
sented them.  When  Colonel  d'Auban's 
was  given  to  him,  he  looked  up  quick- 
ly, and  then  said,  in  a  low  voice,  to  one 
of  the  men  who  accompanied  him, 
"  These  are  the  persons  the  governor 
expects.  He  is  to  be  immediately 
informed  of  their  arrival.  Send  this 
passport  at  once  to  the  government 
house." 

Madame  d'Auban  overheard  the  whis- 
per, and  turned  as  pale  as  death.  She 
was  obliged  to  catch  hold  of  her  hus- 
band's arm  to  support  herself.  She 
instantly  apprehended  that  a  quicker 
sailing  vessel  than  their  own  had  pre- 
viously arrived  and  brought  orders  to 
arrest  them.  This  blow  seemed  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear.  D'Auban 
had  been  looking  ill  again,  and  she 
had  fixed  her  hopes  on  the  benefit  he 
would  derive  from  a  warm  climate  and 
a  settled  mode  of  life.  The  fear  of 
fresh  troubles  and  miseries  seemed 
quite  to  overwhelm  her. 

"  It  was  hard,"  she  thought,  "  if  they 
were  not  suffered  to  live  in  obscurity 
in  this  remote  island." 

Tired  and  exhausted,  she  began  to 
weep  bitterly,  regardless  of  the  by- 
standers. It  was  that  sort  of  weeping 
induced  by  fatigue  even  more  than  by 
grief,  but  which,  when  joined  with  it, 
can  neither  be  stayed  nor  checked. 
Her  husband,  who  did  not  know  the 
cause  of  her  distress,  hurried  her  en 


242 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


shore.  Though  the  passport  had  not 
been  returned,  no  one  opposed  their 
landing.  Madame  d'Auban  and  Mina 
were  conveyed  in  a  litter  to  the  house 
of  M.  Thirlemont,  a  gentleman  to 
whom  a  Mend  in  Paris  had  recom- 
mended them,  and  who,  with  the  well- 
known  hospitality  of  the  Bourbon  Cre- 
oles, had  invited  the  new  comers  to 
take  up  their  abode  with  him.  He 
was  one  of  the  wealthiest  landowners 
of  the  island,  and  his  habitation,  just 
outside  the  town,  almost  a  palace. 
"When  the  litter,  carried  by  four  blacks, 
stopped  in  front  of  the  entrance  door, 
he  came  out  with  his  wife  to  greet  their 
guests.  When  Madame  Thirlemont 
caught  sight  of  them,  she  cried  out, 
"It  is  Madame  d'Auban,  monsieur,  I 
told  you  it  must  be  her ;"  and  to  the 
astonishment  of  that  lady  she  clasped 
her  to  her  breast. 

At  the  first  instant  neither  Mina  nor 
her  mother  recollected  who  she  was, 
but  after  a  minute  both  exclaimed 
almost  at  the  same  time,  "Madame 
Lenoir  ! " 

"  Ah  !  not  any  longer  Madame  Le- 
noir," answered  their  hostess,  as  she 
led  them  through  the  hall  into  the 
drawing-room.  "  A  life  of  single  bless- 
edness did  not  suit  me  at  all.  M. 
Thirlemont  came  on  business  to  New 
Orleans  soon  after  our  deliverance  from 
those  abominable  savages.  I  am  sure 
we  can  never  be  thankful  enough  to 
Colonel  d'Auban,"  she  turned  round 
and  bowed  to  him,  "  for  so  gallantly 
coming  to  our  rescue.  Ah,  my  charm- 
ing Mina,  I  hope  since  you  have  been 
in  Paris,  you  have  got  over  your  pref- 
erence for  those  wicked  wretches  who 
so  nearly  murdered  us.  But  as  I  was 
telling  you,  M.  Thirlemont  offered  me 
his  hand,  and  I  have  really  had  no 
reason  to  regret  having  accepted  it, 
though  of  course  I  did  not  do  so  with- 
out much  hesitation,  seeing  all  I  had 
gone  through  in  consequence  of  my 


first  marriage.  Not  that  I  mean  to 
say  that  it  was  M.  Lenoir's  fault,  poor 
man  !  Ah,  Madame  d'Auban,  when  we 
used  to  talk  over  our  mutual  sorrows,  I 
was  most  to  be  pitied.  Providence  was, 
however,  preparing  for  me  a  happy  com- 
pensation," this  was  said  with  a  sweet 
smile  and  glance  at  M.  Thirlemont, 
whose  jovial  countenance  and  loud 
cheerful  laugh  seemed  indeed  calcu- 
lated to  offer  a  contrast  to  the  trag- 
ical passages  of  Madame  Lenoir's  his- 
tory. 

After  some  further  conversation  had 
taken  place,  and  just  as  Madame  Thirle- 
mont was  about  to  conduct  her  guests 
to  their  apartments,  a  servant  came 
into  the  room  and  presented  a  letter  to 
M.  Thirlemont.  He  hastily  read  it,  and 
then  placed  it  in  his  wife's  hands.  A 
cloud  suddenly  overshadowed  her  face, 
and  her  demeanour  to  her  guests  be- 
came cold  and  dignified.  The  letter 
was  from  the  governor.  It  was  a  most 
puzzling  one.  There  was  no  guessing 
its  drift.  "  His  excellency  requested  M. 
Thirlemont,  at  whose  house  he  under- 
stood Colonel  and  Madame  d'Auban  had 
arrived,  not  on  any  account  to  let  them 
depart  before  he  had  seen  them,  and 
added,  that  as  soon  as  some  pressing 
business  he  had  on  hand  was  conclud- 
ed, he  would  come  there  himself,  as  he 
wished  for  a  private  interview  with  his 


The  messenger  who  had  brought 
this  missive  was  cross-questioned  by 
Madame  Thirlemont,  who  went  out  to 
speak  to  him. 

"The  governor,"  he  said,  "had  ap- 
peared excited  when  he  heard  of  Col- 
onel d'Auban's  arrival,  and  immediate- 
ly sent  to  inquire  where  they  were 
gone.  He  had  been  ordered  to  lose  no 
time  in  delivering  the  letter  his  excel- 
lency had  written." 

Madame  Thirlemont  made  her  pi 
It  struck  her  this  was  an  emergency 
which  required  prudence  and  resolv 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


243 


tion.  She  hastened  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  once  more  proposed  to 
conduct  Madame  d'Auban  to  the  cham- 
ber prepared  for  her,  and  then  by  a 
bold  stroke,  which  might,  if  necessary, 
be  explained  away  as  an  accident,  she 
locked  the  door  and  carried  away  the 
key.  Then  rushing  to  the  one  where 
her  husband  had  just  left  d'Auban,  she 
took  the  same  precaution. 

"What  are  you  doing,  madame?" 
exclaimed  the  astonished  M.  Thirle- 
mont,  who  was  still  in  the  passage. 

The  lady  placed  her  finger  on  her 
lips,  and  drew  her  husband  into  a  small 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  which  was 
his  own  sitting  room.  There  she  was 
proceeding  also  to  lock  the  door,  but 
this  he  would  not  stand. 

"  Madame,  are  you  gone  out  of  your 
mind  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  again  laid  her  finger  on  her 
lips,  and  answered,  in  an  impressive 
whisper,  "Monsieur,  this  is  not  the 
time  for  irrelevant,  and  I  might  add, 
indecorous  exclamations.  We  are  in 
a  position  of  the  greatest,  of  the  most 
awful,  responsibility.  If  I  was  liable 
to  go  out  of  my  mind,  I  suppose  I 
should  have  done  so  when  M.  Lenoir 
was  murdered,  or  on  the  night  when  I 
so  narrowly  escaped  being  a  martyr." 
Madame  Thirlemont's  idea  of  martyr- 
dom consisted  in  dying  a  painful  death, 
and  going  in  consequence  as  a  matter 
of  course  to  heaven,  a  sort  of  pisaller 
which  she  evidently  thought  we  must 
all  come  to  at  last. 

"  As  I  did  not  go  out  of  my  mind 
then,  I  suppose  I  shall  not  do  so  now, 
though  the  circumstances  in  which  we 
are  placed  might  very  reasonably  drive 
one  mad  .  ." 

"  Oh !  if  you  please  do  not  go  mad, 
madame ;  that  would  only  make  mat- 
ters worse,  whatever  the  matter  is; 
but—" 

"Do  not  say  but,  M.  Thirlemont. 
Look  the  matter  in  the  face,  and  give 


your  attention  to  it.  These  people  are 
the  same  who  were  in  Louisiana  at  the 
time  of  the  Natches  insurrection.  M. 
d'Auban  led  the  force  which  delivered 
me  and  many  others  from  the  hands 
of  the  savages,  and  I  saw  them  after- 
wards in  New  Orleans." 

"Well,  but  what  of  that?" 

"Ohl  very  well,  M.  Thirlemont;  if 
it  is  'Well,  but  what  of  that!'— if  I 
am  considered  a  fool— if  every  thing  I 
say  is  turned  into  ridicule,  I  have  done. 
M.  Lenoir  would  not  have  acted  in  that 
way ;  he  had  reliance  on  my  judgment ; 
he  never  did  any  thing  but  by  my  ad- 
vice—" 

"And  ended  by  being  murdered, 
poor  man ! "  ejaculated,  in  an  incau- 
tious moment,  M.  Thirlemont. 

This  was  indeed  a  fair  ground  of 
attack ;  a  justifiable  theme  for  his  in- 
jured wife  to  descant  upon.  He  had 
accused  her  of  some  sort  of  complicity 
with  her  first  husband's  murderers — of 
having,  at  least,  recommended  him  to 
follow  the  course  which  led  to  that 
result ;  and  there  seemed  for  some  time 
little  prospect  of  M.  and  Madame 
d'Auban  being  released  from  captivity, 
or  M.  Thirlemont  from  the  conjugal 
tete-a-tete,  to  judge  from  the  torrent  of 
words,  pathetic,  passionate,  and  utterly 
senseless,  which  flowed  from  his  wife's 
lips.  But  it  came  to  an  end  at  last, 
and  when  she  paused  to  take  breath 
he  inquired  once  again,  but  taking  care 
to  avoid  any  offensive  insinuation,  why 
their  guests  were  to  be  suspected  be- 
cause they  had  been  in  Louisiana  at 
the  time  of  the  insurrection,  and  shared, 
with  many  others,  and  Madame  Thirle- 
mont herself,  the  sufferings  of  the 
colonists.  She  then  explained  that 
somebody  at  New  Orleans  had  once 
said  to  her  that  there  were  strange 
stories  about  the  d'Aubans.  No  details 
had  been  given.  One  of  those  asser- 
tions  had  been  made  which,  like  the 
seed  blown  about  by  the  wind,  and 


244 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO     BE    TRUE. 


which  gives  birth  to  many  a  noxious 
weed,  propagates  mischief  with  fatal 
facility.  A  strange  story  about  some- 
body, which  the  speaker  himself  does 
not  know  much  about,  has  often  done 
more  harm  than  a  positive  calumny. 
A  direct  charge  friends  can  reply  to. 
But  who  could  always  deny  that,  in 
their  own  or  others'  lives'  there  have 
been  no  strange  stories  ?  The  few  who 
knew  the  details  of  the  one  we  have 
been  describing,  could  certainly  not 
have  denied  its  strangeness. 

"  But  why  lock  them  up  ?  "  persisted 
M.  Thirlemont.  "Whatever  stories 
there  may  be  about  or  against  them,  I 
do  not  see  the  use  of  that." 

"  Not  see  the  use  of  it  ?  Why,  does 
not  the  governor  charge  you  not  to  let 
them  go  till  he  comes." 

"But  he  cannot  intend  that  we 
should  keep  them  prisoners.  He  would 
have  had  them  arrested,  if  such  had 
been  his  meaning.  For  heaven's  sake, 
go  and  unlock  those  doors  before  he 
arrives.  I  declare  there  is  the  sound 
of  a  horse's  feet  in  the  avenue  !  Give 
me  the  keys,  and  go  and  meet  his  ex- 
cellency." 

Madame  Thirlemont  hurried  into  the 
hall,  and  confronted  with  no  little 
trepidation  the  Governor-General  M. 
de  La  Bourdonnais,  who  had  never 
honoured  her  before  with  a  visit.  She 
curtseyed  profoundly,  and  at  once  pro- 
ceeded to  assure  him  that  it  was  by  the 
merest  chance  in  the  world  that  the 
strangers  who  were  just  arrived  hap- 
pened to  be  at  her  house.  From  the 
first  moment  of  their  arrival,  she  had 
had  suspicions  that  there  was  some- 
thing unsatisfactory  about  them;  in- 
deed, it  had  been  quite  against  her 
advice  that  M.  Thirlemont  had  shown 
them  hospitality :  but  gentlemen  would 
have  their  own  way.  ...  M.  de  La 
Bourdonnais  patiently  awaited  the 
ebbing  of  this  tide  of  self-defence,  a 
slightly  sarcastic  smile  hovering  on  his 


lips,  and  then  requested  to  be  shown 
into  a  room  where  he  could  see  M.  and 
Madame  d'Auban.  He  was  accordingly 
ushered  into  the  drawing-room,  where 
M.  Thirlemont  had  politely  led  his 
guests,  who  had  been  perfectly  unaware 
of  their  temporary  imprisonment.  Mad- 
ame d'Auban,  when  she  heard  that  the 
governor  wished  for  an  interview  with 
her  husband  and  herself,  had  trembled 
from  head  to  foot,  and  the  respectful 
manner  with  which  he  approached  her 
only  tended  to  heighten  her  fears.  In 
her  husband's  heart  a  feeling  of  indig- 
nation was  rising.  Wild  thoughts 
were  passing  through  his  mind  about 
the  tyranny  of  kings  and  the  iron  yoke 
of  despotism.  Both  saw  at  once  that 
her  position  was  perfectly  known,  and 
that  a  crisis  in  their  fates  must  be  at 
hand.  Still  both  preserved  their  self- 
command,  and  received  with  courteous- 
ness  the  governor's  greetings.  After  a 
few  preliminary  remarks  and  inquiries 
as  to  their  healtjb,  the  length  of  their 
voyage,  and  their  first  impressions  of 
the  island,  he  said  that  the  last  ship 
from  France  had  brought  an  order  from 
his  majesty  (Madame  d'Auban  became 
very  pale)  to  name  Colonel  d'Auban  to 
the  post  of  sub-governor  of  the  island  ; 
and  to  offer  him  also  the  direction  of  all 
the  agricultural  operations  carried  on 
by  the  government  in  its  own  domains. 
He  was  also  desired  by  the  king  to 
place  at  Madame  d'Auban's  disposal 
the  habitation  of  St.  Andre,  one  of  the 
most  salubrious  and  agreeable  resi- 
dences in  the  neighbourhood  of  St. 
Deny's ;  "  as  desirable  a  one,"  he  add- 
ed, in  a  low  voice,  "  as  the  island  could 
offer  for  a  lady  of  exalted  rank." 

A  deep  flush  overspread  Madame 
d'Auban's  cheek,  which  soon  subsided. 
She  looked  at  her  husband.  Their  eyes 
met.  "The  king  is  very  good,"  she 
said,  in  a  faltering  voice.  Then  hiding 
her  face  in  her  hands,  burst  into  tears. 
M.  de  La  Bourdonnais,  with  a  well-bi 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


LMfi 


delicacy  of  feeling,  led  away  M.  d'Au- 
ban  to  another  part  of  the  room,  and 
gave  him  some  details  about  the  post 
to  which  he  was  appointed,  the  emolu- 
ments of  which  had  been  Doubled  by 
his  majesty's  commands.  He  soon  took 
leave  of  him  and  his  wife  with  a  cour- 
tesy and  a  kindness  which  ever  after- 
wards marked  his  manner  and  conduct 
towards  them.  He  made  a  gracious 
bow  to  Madame  Thirlemont  as  he  passed 
her  in  the  anteroom,  and  advised  her 
and  her  husband  to  hasten  and  pay 
their  respects  to  the  new  sub-governor 
of  the  island,  to  whom  they  had  so 
amicably  extended  hospitality.  This 
was  said  with  a  smile,  which  had  in  it 
a  slight  mixture  of  French  malice,  the 
most  different  thing  in  the  world  from 
malice  in  English. 

The  poor  hostess  experienced  as 
strong,  if  not  as  interesting,  a  revulsion 
of  feeling,  as  that  which  her  guests  had 
felt  a  moment  before,  when  the  an- 
nouncement had  been  made  to  them 
of  so  unexpected  a  happiness.  She 
quivered  all  over.  She  repassed  in  her 
memory  every  word  she  had  uttered, 
every  civility  she  had  omitted  or  per- 
formed towards  the  new  dignitaries. 
She  went  back  in  thought  even  to  the 
old  days  at  the  Natches,  and  to  the 
night  when  she  and  Madame  d'Auban 
had  been  about  to  die  side  by  side. 
She  was  very  glad  of  her  good  fortune, 
and  when,  on  entering  the  room,  the 
pale,  gentle  woman  who  had  suffered 
so  much,  came  forward  to  meet  her 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  a  smile  on 
her  lips,  the  good  feelings  of  her  heart 
overcame  her  uneasiness,  and  she,  too, 
wept  for  joy  at  another's  happiness. 
For  it  was  happiness  she  could  umlrr- 
stand  and  sympathize  in,  that  of  being 
sub-governess  of  the  Isle  de  Bourbon 
and  enjoying  a  good  income.  :iml  pos- 
sessing the  best  house  in  the  island. 
She  did  not  know  of  the  relief,  the 
peace,  the  release  from  the  disquietude 


of  ceaseless  apprehension  that  was  per- 
vading the  heart  of  one  by  whose  side 
she  sat,  whose  hand  she  held.  She 
sympathized  with  the  obvious  good 
fortune  which  had  befallen  Madame 
d'Auban,  and  did  not  at  all  wonder  at 
an  emotion,  the  cause  of  which  she 
little  appreciated.  It  did  not  seem  to 
her  at  all  excessive  for  the  occasion. 
She  would  have  been  herself  much 
more  agitated  if  M.  Thirlemont  had 
been  named  sub-governor  of  the  island. 
On  the  whole,  Madame  d'Auban  took 
it  very  calmly,  she  thought.  Yes !  she 
was  calm  with  the  calmness  of  one  who 
has  long  battled  with  the  waves,  and 
has  reached  a  peaceful  shore;  calm 
with  the  calmness  of  a  heart  at  rest. 
Calm  as  those  are  from  whom  a  great 
anguish  has  passed  away,  to  whom  a 
great  blessing  has  been  vouchsafed. 
She  could  lie  down  and  rise  in  peace. 
Her  husband  was  now  her  own.  The 
fear  of  separation  was  no  longer  before 
her  eyes.  His  energies  would  be  once 
more  directed  in  high  and  useful  chan- 
nels. The  house  promised  to  them  was 
all  they  could  desire.  Its  vicinity  to 
the  sea  would,  she  knew,  be  to  d'Auban 
an  immense  enjoyment,  like  a  friend  of 
his  childhood,  cheering  his  declining 
years.  If  the  trees  round  St.  Andre 
were  not  so  grand  as  those  of  the  pri- 
maeval forests;  if  the  flowers  did  not 
bloteom  as  spontaneously  in  its  gardens 
as  in  the  wild  pleasure-grounds  of 
Louisiana,  there  .would  be  beauty  in 
abundance  about  their  new  abode,  and 
more  repose,  more  security,  a  stronger 
home-feeling  in  their  position,  than  in 
the  lodge  in  the  wilderness  so  much 
loved  in  former  days. 

Before  the  Governor  left,  he  had 
placed  in  Madame  d'Auban's  hands  a 
sealed  packet,  containing  letters  whu  h 
explained  the  change  in  their  fortunes. 
Tin-re  was  a  long  one  from  the  Comte 
de  Saxe.  He  spoke  of  his  own  surprise 
at  her  departure,  which  he  felt  some- 


240 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


what  afraid  of  announcing  to  the  king. 
Important  political  events  had,  how- 
ever, happily  supervened,  and  turned 
his  majesty's  thoughts  in  another  direc- 
tion; and  some  days  elapsed,  during 
which  no  inquiries  were  made  as  to  the 
princess  and  the  interview  which  the 
comte  had  had  with  her. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  Queen  of  Hun- 
gary's reply  to  the  king's  letter  arrived. 
It  expressed  in  courteous  terms  her 
majesty's  gratitude  for  the  French  mon- 
arch's information  on  a  point  so  deeply 
interesting  to  her.  Her  royal  relation, 
she  assured  him,  would  be  most  warmly 
welcomed .  by  her,  and  every  honour 
and  attention  due  to  her  rank  paid  to 
the  sister  of  her  late  mother.  His  maj- 
esty's gracious  offers  with  regard  to  the 
gentleman  whom  the  princess  had  es- 
poused in  America,  and  the  child  that 
had  been  born  there,  would,  doubtless, 
be  gratefully  accepted  by  all  parties. 
It  would,  of  course,  be  impossible,  as 
his  majesty  justly  observed,  that  the 
princess,  restored  to  her  rightful  posi- 
tion, and  received  by  her  as  her  aunt, 
should  acknowledge  that  person  as  her 
husband.  But  she  trusted  that  a  sep- 
aration so  inevitable  under  the  circum- 
stances, and  softened  by  the  generous 
goodness  of  his  majesty  to  all  parties, 
would  be  acquiesced  in  without  diffi- 
culty. "  On  the  receipt  of  this  letter, 
the  king  immediately  sent  for  me," 
wrote  the  count.  "  He  had  it  in  his 
hand  when  I  entered,  and  after  reading 
it  aloud,  he  said,  'You  must  imme- 
diately communicate  this  important 
intelligence  to  the  Princess  Charlotte 
of  Brunswick,  and  advise  with  her  as 
to  the  time  and  manner  in  which  she 
desires  to  avail  herself  of  her  royal 
niece's  invitation.  I  have  received  a 
favourable  report  of  Colonel  d'Auban's 
character  and  abilities,  and  I  shall  take 
care  of  his  fortune.  It  is  fortunate  that 
the  princess  did  not  marry  an  adven- 
turer.' I  felt  myself  obliged  to  broach 


at  once  the  state  of  the  case  to  his 
majesty.  'Sire,'  I  said,  'women  have 
always  been  unaccountable  beings; 
they  never  feel  or  act  as  we  should 
expect.  What  will  your  majesty  think, 
when  I  tell  you  that  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte has  eloped  with  her  husband?' 
The  king  started.  'When?'  'A  few 
days  ago,  sire.'  'Why  did  not  you 
inform  me  of  this  at  once,  M.  de  Saxe  ? ' 
'  I  did  not  know  it  myself,  sire,  till 
after  the  princess  was  gone ;  and  I  have 
since  been  occupied  in  seeking  to  dis- 
cover where  the  married  lovers  have 
fled.'  'And  have  you  succeeded  in 
doing  so?'  'Sire,  they  have  sailed 
for  the  Island  of  Bourbon.'  'What 
an  extraordinary  infatuation ! '  said 
the  king.  '  Strange,  indeed,'  I  an- 
swered with  a  sigh.  '  But  there  is  no 
reasoning  with  a  woman  when  she  hap- 
pens to  be  fond  of  her  husband.'  The 
king  laughed  and  said:  'The  queen 
is  capable  of  admiring  her.  But  what 
can  we  do  for  them,  M.  de  Saxe?' 
'  Leave  them  alone,  sire :  wilful  people 
deserve  to  suffer.' 

"'Suffer!'  his  majesty  said,  'You 
do  not  mean  that  the  princess  is  without 
fortune  ? ' 

"  I  answered  nothing ;  and  the  king, 
after  a  moment's  thought,  exclaimed  : 

"  '  I  will  make  M.  de  Frejus  write  to 
M.  de  La  Bourdonnais  and  desire  him 
to  treat  Madame  d'Auban  with  the 
greatest  consideration,  and  to  bestow 
upon  her  husband  the  post  of  sub-gov- 
ernor of  the  island,  which  happens  to 
be  vacant  since  M.  d'Eperville's  death. 
Will  that  do,  M.  de  Saxe  ? ' 

"I  kissed  his  majesty's  hand  with 
more  fervent  gratitude,  madame,  than 
when  his  majesty  promised  me  the  next 
'  baton  de  Marechal  de  France.' 

" '  And  I  suppose,'  the  King  said, 
'  that  I  must  inform  the  Queen  of  Hun- 
gary that  her  royal  aunt  has  played 
truant,  and  left  us  all  in  the  lurch. 
Upon  my  word,  M.  de  Saxe,  I  like  her 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


247 


for  it.  But  I  wish  I  had  seen  those 
blue  eyes  I  have  so  often  heard  of.' 

"  Madame  I  have  but  a  few  words  to 
add.  By  his  majesty's  desire  I  secretly 
informed  your  royal  highness's  brother 
and  the  other  leading  members  of  your 
family  of  the  extraordinary  events  al- 
ready disclosed  to  her  majesty  the  Queen 
of  Hungary,  of  the  decision  you  had 
taken,  madame,  and  of  your  recent  de- 
parture from  France.  The  answers 
returned  to  this  communication  all 
agreed  in  acquiescing  in  the  course 
your  royal  highness  has  adopted.  In 
the  complicated  state  of  affairs  between 
Russia  and  the  German  powers,  it  is 
deemed  advisable  that  the  existence  of 
the  Czarevitch's  widow  should  not  be 
brought  forward  to  public  notice.  Had 
your  royal  highness  claimed  from  your 
relatives  the  recognition  which  would 
have  enabled  you  to  resume  your  posi- 
tion, they  would  have  felt  themselves 
bound  to  accede  to  your  desire,  and 
publicly  to  acknowledge  your  identity. 
But  under  existing  circumstances,  the 
course  your  royal  highness's  own  wishes 
have  marked  out  is  considered  by  the 
duke  your  brother,  and  the  other  mem- 
bers of  your  family,  as  the  most  condu- 
cive to  your  peace  of  mind,  and  the 
tranquillity  of  your  relatives.  They 
are  desirous,  however,  to  secure  to  your 
royal  highness  an  annual  income  suffi- 
cient to  remove  all  pecuniary  embar- 
rassments in  the  position  chosen  by 
yourself,  and  have  entrusted  to  my  care 
the  necessary  arrangements  for  this 
purpose.  I  am  charged,  madame,  to 
express  to  your  royal  highness  the 
affectionate  sentiments  of  your  royal 
brother  and  of  your  other  relatives, 
and  their  regret  that  an  unprecedented 
destiny  should  have  placed  an  insu- 
perable bar  between  persons  so  closely 
allied  by  the  ties  of  consanguinity." 

The  day  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and 
Madame  d'Auban  was  alone  in  her  room 
with  her  husband  and  her  daughter. 


They  could  sit  quietly  together,  looking 
back  to  the  last  four  years  of  their  lives 
as  to  a  feverish  dream,  and  forward 
with  grateful  hearts  to  one  of  usefulness 
and  peace.  If  they  had  been  allowed 
to  choose  for  themselves,  they  could 
not  have  fixed  on  a  destiny  more  in 
accordance  with  their  wishes  than  the 
one  Providence  had  assigned  to  them. 
From  the  window,  where  they  were 
sitting,  they  could  see  their  future  hab-^ 
itation  in  the  midst  of  orange  gardens" 
and  coffee  plantations,  and  trees  bend- 
ing under  the  weight  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful fruits,  the  blue  sea  breaking  gently 
on  the  smooth  yellow  coast ;  the  even- 
ing breeze  rippling  its  surface  without 
stirring  its  depths.  They  could  scarcely 
speak,  their  hearts  were  too  full. 

"My  Mina,  is  not  this  a  beautiful 
land  ? "  said  her  father,  looking  fondly 
at  his  child. 

"An  earthly  Paradise,"  murmured 
her  mother,  clasping  her  to  her  breast. 

Mina  threw  her  arms  round  her  neck 
and  covered  her  with  kisses.  Then  she 
followed  with  her  eyes  her  father's  hand 
as  he  pointed  out  to  her  the  habitation 
of  St.  Andr6,  and  they  rested  on  the 
sugar-cane  and  cotton  fields,  and  on 
long  lines  of  negroes  marching  home 
from  their  work,  followed  by  an  over- 
seer with  a  whip  in  his  hand.  She 
cried: 

"  O  how  beautiful  is  the  sea !  and 
how  lovely  the  trees  and  the  sky !  and 
the  most  beautiful  thing  of  all,  mamma, 
is  the  smile  on  your  face.  I  have  not 
seen  you  smile  quite  in  that  way  since 
we  left  St.  Agathe  P1 

"Papa,"  she  said,  gently  stroking 
her  father's  hand,  "you  will  have  to 
manage  a  great  many  plantations  here 
besides  the  one  we  see  from  this  win- 
dow, round  St.  Andi 

"  Yes,  my  sweetest ;  please  God,  we 
may  do  some  good  here." 

"You  will  have  a  great  many 
slaves?" 


248 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


"Yes,  my  child;  there  is  no  work 
done  here  except  by  slaves." 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  left  Father  Clav- 
er's  Life  at  the  Chateau  de  la  Croix, 
papa.  There  are  no  slaves  there.  I 
should  like  to  read  it  again  here." 

"  Do  not  you  know  it  by  heart, 
Mina  ?  "  said  her  father,  smiling. 

"Almost  by  heart,"  she  answered 
slowly,  with  her  eyes  again  turning 
towards  the  plantations,  and  the  long 
files  of  black  men  bearing  their  bur- 
thens home.  The  story  of  that  life- 
long apostleship  amongst  the  slaves 
of  Brazil  had,  indeed,  been  conned  by 
the  young .  girl  till  it  had  awakened 
thoughts  which — 

Condensed  within  her  soul, 
And  turned  to  purpose  strong. 

There  is  happiness,  real,  intense  hap- 
piness in  this  world.  How  should  we 
guess  at  the  joy  of  heaven,  if  we  had 
never  tasted  happiness  on  earth  ?  There 
are  moments  when  our  hearts  seem  too 
full  of  bliss  for  their  strength.  When 
an  innocent  ardent  wish  is  fulfilled; 
when  a  great  happiness  has  come  to 
one  we  love  more  than  ourselves  ;  when 
a  long  anguish  is  at  an  end,  or  a  new 
gladness  has  come  to  our  homes,  there 
is  a  light,  a  brightness,  a  radiance 
thrown  over  our  lives  beautiful  in  its 
way,  and  it  is  often  good  to  have  felt 
it.  Pure  earthly  joys  are  blossoms 
which  often  bear  fruit  when  they  are 
themselves  withered  and  gone.  And 
there  are  Hallowtide  summers  in  the 
autumn  of  life  which  have  a  softened 
brilliancy  of  their  own — breathing  times 
allowed  in  the  race  of  existence.  Such 
were  the  years  which  followed  the  ar- 
rival of  the  wanderers  in  the  Island  of 
Bourbon.  By  the  dark  blue  sea  he  so 
much  loved,  amidst  the  spicy  groves 
and  orange  flowers  of  that  delicious 
land,  in  the  performance  of  pleasant 
duties  and  the  fullest  enjoyment  of 
domestic  happiness,  their  hearts  over- 


flowing with  affection  for  each  other 
and  for  their  child;  beloved  by  their 
dependants;  all  but  worshipped  by 
their  slaves,  whose  fate  was  exception- 
ably  happy,  and  generally  liked  by 
their  neighbours;  months  and  years 
went  by  in  peaceful  serenity.  Some 
colonists,  indeed,  were  wont  to  remark 
that  Colonel  d'Auban  had  eccentric 
ideas  on  certain  points.  He  had  been 
known  to  invite  to  dinner  a  well-edu- 
cated quadroon,  and  to  take  into  his 
house  the  widow  of  a  man  who  had 
died  of  a  broken  heart,  because  his 
father  had  cursed  and  disinherited  him 
for  marrying  a  woman  with  negro  blood 
in  her  veins;  and  he  permitted  his 
daughter  to  do  extraordinary  things, 
which  did  not  always  meet  with  public 
approval.  But  the  girl  was  so  beautiful, 
and  so  beloved,  and  looked  so  like  an 
angel,  that  much  was  not  said  on  that 
score.  And  Madame  d'Auban  we  would 
fain  take  leave  of  her  in  her  pretty 
rooms,  or  her  charming  garden ;  greet- 
ing every  friend  with  kind  words,  every 
stranger  with  a  courteous  smile,  every 
sufferer  with  soothing  sympathy.  Less 
active  than  of  yore,  for  the  climate  was 
enervating,  she  often  reclined  on  a 
couch  in  the  verandah,  whence  she 
could  see  the  waves  rippling  on  the 
shore,  and  the  white  vessels  nearing 
the  coast.  Visitors  crowded  about  the 
sub-governor's  lovely  wife,  and  whispers 
went  abroad  that  she  was  not  born  a 
thousand  miles  away  from  a  palace. 
Rumours  more  or  less  removed  from 
the  truth,  but  generally  credited  in  the 
island,  ascribed  her  ample  means,  her 
boundless  generosity,  and  the  union  in 
her  manner  of  courteousness  and  dig- 
nity, of  kindness  and  reserve,  to  a  regal 
origin,  vaguely  and  variously  hinted  at. 
Yes,  it  would  be  well  thus  to  part  with 
her.  The  present  is  bright,  and  the 
future  smiling.  For  Raoul  de  la  Croix 
is  soon  coming  to  seek  his  young  bride, 
now  no  longer  portionless,  and  when 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


249 


Mina  is  happily  married  there  will  be 
nothing  left  for  her  mother  to  wish. 
This  would  be  a  pleasant  way  of  con- 
cluding a  tale ;  but  the  story,  the  le- 
gend, if  you  will,  which  we  have  been 
endeavouring  to  illustrate,  ends  not 


here ;  and  there  are  some  who  may  wish 
to  trace  to  its  close  the  course  of  so 
strange  a  life.  For  them  the  following 
pages  are  written.  Let  others  close 
the  book,  if  from  weariness  they  have 
not  done  so  yet. 


CHAPTER    X. 


Here  I  Cain  would  end, 

Leaving  her  harbour'd;  but  her  stern  kind  fetes, 
Not  thus  forwent  her.    Like  her  life,  her  death ; 
Not  negative  or  neutral ;  great  in  pains, 
La  consolations  greater.  Aubrey  d«  Vere. 

Slowly  across  the  gleaming  sky, 
A  crowd  of  white  angels  are  passing  by; 
Like  a  fleet  of  swans  they  float  along, 
Or  the  silver  notes  of  a  dying  song, 
Like  a  cloud  of  incense  their  pinions  rise, 
Fading  away  up  the  purple  skies. 
But  hush,  for  the  silent  glory  is  stirred, 
By  a  strain  such  as  earth  has  never  heard. 
Open,  Oh  heaven  1  we  bear  her, 

This  gentle  maiden  mild, 
Earth's  griefs  we  gladly  spare  her, 
From  earthly  joys  we  tear  her, 

still  undeflled. 
And  to  thine  arms  we  bear  her, 

Thine  own,  thy  child. 
Open,  Oh  heavens  1  no  morrow 

Will  see  this  Joy  o'ercast, 
No  pain,  no  tears,  no  sorrow, 
Her  gentle  heart  will  borrow ; 

Sad  life  is  past 

Shielded  and  safe  from  sorrow, 
At  home  at  last.  Adelaide  Proctor. 


MANY  years  later  than  the  date  of  the, 
last  chapter,  at  the  close  of  a  Novem- 
ber day,  in  Brussels,  the  shutters  were 
being  closed  in  the  small  sitting-room 
of  a  rez  du  chautsee  in  the  rue  de  Pare, 
not  far  from  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Gu- 
dule.  A  lamp  had  just  been  placed  on 
the  table,  where  an  elderly  lady,  dressed 
in  black,  was  tying  up  a  variety  of  par- 
cels, and  writing  upon  them  the  names 
of  the  articles  they  contained. 

"  Antoine,"  she  said  to  the  old  man 
who  was  stirring  the  fire  and  trying  to 


make  the  room  comfortable,  "  is  not  to- 
morrow the  day  that  the  case  must  be 
sent  to  the  Foreign  Missions  ? " 

"  To-day  is  Thursday  ;  to-morrow 
consequently  Friday.  Yes,  madame, 
I  must  take  it  to  the  office  before  four 
o'clock." 

Then  lingering  by  the  table  as  if 
glad  of  an  excuse  for  remaining  in  the 
room,  he  glanced  at  the  parcels  and 
said— 

"My  goodness!  how  glad  Pcre  Marie 
Guillaume  will  be  when  he  looks  at  all 


250 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


these  fine  things!  Let  me  see;  mad- 
ame  sends  him  six  dozen  crucifixes — 
he  asked  for  three  dozen  in  his  last 
letter — and  as  many  dozens  of  rosaries 
and  pictures;  and  the  Gospels  just 
printed  in  Paris,  in  the  Indian  lan- 
guage ;  and  a  chalice,  a  very  handsome 
one  too !  and  vestments  they  would  not 
despise  at  St.  Gudule.  Faith!  the 
good  father  will  be  famously  well  set 
up.  And  what  are  these  things,  I  won- 
der !  Clothes,  I  declare ;  red  and  blue 
and  yellow  handkerchiefs  for  Mesdames 
les  Sauvagesses,  as  poor  M.  de  Cham- 
belle  used  to  say." 

"  Somebody  is  ringing,  Antoine.  It 
is  perhaps  M.  le  Cure,  or  the  nuns  of 
St.  Charles." 

Antoine  went  to  the  door,  and  re- 
mained for  a  few  minutes  in  conversa- 
tion with  the  person  outside.  When 
he  came  back  into  the  room  he  looked 
a  little  excited. 

"  A  gentleman  asks  to  see  madame — 
somebody  she  knows  very  well,  but 
whom  she  has  not  seen  for  a  long 
time." 

"  Who  is  it  ? "  she  quickly  answered. 

"  Madame,  it  is  the  Comte  Marechal 
de  Saxe." 

Madame  d'Auban,  for  the  pale  and 
now  gray-headed  woman  in  this  little 
lodging  was  the  same  who,  during 
half  a  century  of  her  earthly  pilgrim- 
age, had  gone  through  such  extraordi- 
nary vicissitudes,  heaved  a  deep  sigh 
and  passed  her  thin  hand  over  her 
brow. 

"Beg  M.  le  Marechal  to  come  in," 
she  said,  and  rose  to  receive  him. 

There  was  but  little  visible  emotion 
in  her  manner  when  first  they  met.  He 
seemed  embarrassed,  as  persons  often 
are  when  they  come  into  the  presence 
of  one  whom  they  suppose  to  be  in 
great  afiliction.  She  greeted  him  kind- 
ly, but  a  careless  observer  would  have 
said,  coldly — 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  have 


thought  of  me,  M.  de  Saxe.  Several 
years  have  elapsed  since  my  return  to 
Europe,  and  during  all  that  time  I  have 
not  seen  any  one  I  used  to  know.  You 
are  looking  well.  I  perceive  time  has 
dealt  leniently  with  you.  It  is  only  in 
fame  that  you  can  be  considered  old." 
This  was  said  with  a  smile  which  re- 
called to  his  mind,  though  faintly,  the 
smiles  of  other  days. 

"  And  you,  madame,"  he  answered, 
"you  whom  fate  has  so  cruelly 
used  .  .  .  ." 

She  waved  her  hand,  and  interrupt- 
ed him.  "No,  my  dear  friend,  say 
not  so;  God  has  been  very  good  to 
me." 

For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke, 
he  looked  at  her  faded  eyes,  her  gray 
hair,  tied  and  turned  up  according  to 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  but  not  pow- 
dered, only  bound  by  a  black  ribbon, 
and  a  cap  such  as  widows  wore  at  that 
period.  He  remembered  how  those 
pale  blue  eyes  had  flashed  the  last  time 
they  had  met  at  the  thought  of  a 
human  power  thrusting  itself  between 
her  and  those  she  loved,  and  now,  "  the 
fire  has  gone  out  of  them ;  quenched 
by  many  tears,"  he  said  to  himself. 
And  then  he  glanced  at  a  picture  over 
the  chimney,  but  quickly  turned  his 
eyes  away  till  he  saw  that  hers  were 
fixed  upon  it. 

"  Do  you  think  it  like  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  never  saw  in  my  life  any  thing  so 
like,"  he  answered ;  and  then  after  a 
little  hesitation,  said,  "  Madame,  I  have 
never  forgotten  that  face.  It  has 
haunted  me  at  strange  times,  and  in 
strange  ways.  Is  it  painful  to  you  to 
speak  of  her?" 

"  No,  Maurice,  I  find  a  sweetness  in 
it.  Except  sometimes  to  my  old  ser- 
vant, I  never  breathe  her  name.  But 
it  is  not  because  I  fear  to  do  so.  You 
remember  her,  then  ? " 

"  I  see  her  as  if  she  was  still  standing 
before  me  with  her  wonderful  beauty, 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


251 


and  that  gaze  which  had  in  it  all  a 
woman's  tenderness  and  a  child's  sim- 
plicity. It  was  not  her  mind  only,  but 
her  whole  soul  which  seemed  to  speak 
in  her  face.  All,  madame  I  how  could 
death  be  so  cruel  as  to  rob  you  of  that 
fair  creature?  How  dared  it  to  ap- 
proach her  ? " 

"  She  did  not  think  it  cruel,  she  wel- 
comed it  with  a  smile,  and  the  last 
words  on  her  lips  were  Deo  gratias." 

"  Was  it  a  sudden  illness  snatched 
her  from  your  arms,  princess,  or  did 
you  watch  the  slow  decline  of  that 
young  existence  ? " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  hear  about  her,  M. 
de  Saxe  ?  Would  you  like  her  mother 
to  relate  to  you  the  life  and  death  of 
the  little  girl  you  remember  so  well  ? " 

"Nothing  could  interest  me  more. 
But  you,  dear  friend,  have  you  the 
strength  to  go  through  this  recital  ? '' 

"I  should  wish  you  to  know  what 
she  was.  How  in  the  words  of  the 
Bible,  *  Being  perfect  in  a  short  space 
she  fulfilled  a  long  time.'  Ever  since 
she  could  think  or  speak,  Mina's  pas- 
sion, if  I  may  so  speak,  was  charity. 
At  the  time  you  knew  her,  the  tempo- 
ral sufferings  and  the  spiritual  necessi- 
ties of  the  people  amongst  whom  she 
was  born,  the  Indians  of  North  Amer- 
ica, were  continually  in  her  thoughts, 
and  her  attachment  to  the  young  In- 
dian who  had  adopted  her  as  his  sister 
at  the  period  of  our  captivity,  partly 
arose  from  this  engrossing  feeling. 
She  looked  upon  him  as  the  represent- 
ative of  that  suffering  race,  and  before 
we  left  France,  she  refused  the  hand 
of  the  Chevalier  de  la  Croix,  whom  we 
wished  her  to  marry,  on  account  of  the 
promise  she  had  made  to  this  Indian 
not  to  marry  a  white  man.  She  seem- 
ed to  consider  it -as  a  pledge  to  devote 
herself  in  some  form  or  other  to  his, 
and,  as  she  called  them,  her  own  peo- 
ple. We  did  not  thwart  her  on  this 
point,  which  we  looked  upon  as  a 


childish  fancy.  She  was  too  young  at 
that  time  to  be  married,  and  the  chev- 
alier's parents  were  willing  to  wait 
After  our  arrival  at  Bourbon,  and  our 
establishment  at  St.  Andr6,  the  slaves 
became  the  object  of  her  intense  solici- 
tude. Whilst  we  were  still  in  America, 
at  the  convent  I  believe,  she  had  be- 
come possessed  of  a  life  of  Father 
Peter  Claver,  which  had  made  the 
deepest  impression  on  her.  You  are 
not  a  Catholic,  Maurice,  but  you  may 
have  heard  of  this  wonderful  man  ? " 

"  Is  he  not  the  priest  who  was  called 
the  apostle  of  the  Brazils  ?  " 

"Yes;  for  forty  years  and  more  he 
laboured  under  the  burning  sun  of 
South  America,  and  devoted  himself, 
soul  and  body,  to  the  conversion  of  the 
negroes  in  and  around  Carthagena. 
His  life  was  spent  in  consoling,  reliev- 
ing, and  instructing  them.  In  the 
pestilential  holds  of  the  slave  ships  he 
went  to  greet  them  on  their  arrival. 
He  passed  whole  days  in  the  noisome 
buildings  to  which  they  were  consign,- 
ed  on  landing,  breathing  an  air  which 
after  a  few  minutes  caused  the  strong- 
est men  to  faint  away.  He  followed 
them  to  the  scenes  of  their  labours ;  to 
the  homes  of  their  purchasers.  He 
mediated  between  them  and  their 
masters,  and  exposed  himself  to  ill 
treatment  for  their  sakes.  It  was  giv- 
en to  him  to  work  miracles  in  their 
behalf;  the  hearts  of  cruel  men  soften- 
ed when  he  spoke ;  cupidity  and  cruel- 
ty stayed  their  hands  at  his  word.  M. 
de  Saxe,  from  the  moment  of  our  arri- 
val at  St.  Andre,  Mina  took  this  holy 
man  for  her  model ;  and  I  dare  to  say 
that  in  her  measure,  and  with  her  fee- 
ble strength,  she  copied  into  her  own 
the  features  of  that  saintly  life.  The 
same  love  which  burnt  in  his  heart, 
inflamed  hers.  It  was  a  consuming 
fire.  It  sustained  her  strength,  even 
whilst  her  fragile  form  wasted  away. 
It  could  not  be  stayed.  We  could  not, 


252 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


dared  not,  stop  her  work.  She  would 
have  obeyed  our  commands,  but  the 
effort  would  have  destroyed  her  more 
quickly  than  the  work  itself.  "What 
that  child  effected  in  three  years  is 
almost  incredible.  How  many  slie  in- 
structed, converted,  and  reconciled  to 
their  fate.  How  many  she  brought  to 
be  sincere  Christians,  instead  of  nomi- 
nal converts.  How  many  she  saved 
from  cruel  treatment;  for  she  some- 
times succeeded  where  the  magistrates, 
and  even  the  governor  himself,  had  no 
power,  and  priests  no  influence.  There 
was  scarcely  a  slaveowner  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood .who  would  not  listen  to  her 
when  she  begged,  on  her  knees,  and 
as  a  favour  to  herself,  the  remission  of 
a  sentence  or  the  pardon  of  a  runaway 
slave.  She  was  so  beautiful,  so  en- 
gaging, so  eloquent.  M.  de  La  Bour- 
donnais,  that  great  and  good  man, 
now  in  the  Bastille,  for  having  dared 
to  defend  the  cause  of  humanity  and 
good  faith  against  the  passions  and 
prejudices  of  interested  men,  used  to 
say  that  when  discouragement  at  the 
sight  of  evil,  which  all  his  efforts  could 
not  prevent,  stole  upon  him,  the  sight 
of  Mina  at  work  amongst  the  slaves, 
strengthened  and  cheered  him.  And 
the  poor  negroes  of  our  own  plan- 
tations, how  they  worshipped  her! 
And  with  what  wonder  those  freshly 
imported  from  Africa  looked  upon  the 
white  angel  who  met  them  on  their 
arrival !  Many  of  them,  when  they 
landed  after  the  horrors  of  the  passage, 
were  sunk  into  sullen  despair.  They 
were  persuaded  that  nothing  but  tor- 
tures and  death  awaited  them,  and 
would  not  listen  to  any  white  man, 
whether  priest  or  layman.  But  Mina 
could  always  gain  a  hearing.  She  had 
learnt  the  Angola  language,  which 
most  of  them  speak ;  or,  if  they  belong- 
ed to  other  tribes,  her  early  acquaint- 
ance with  the  use  of  signs  gave  her 
facilities  for  communicating  with  them. 


I  really  believe  that  at  first  they  took 
her  for  a  celestial  visitant.  No  other 
European  woman  came  near  them. 
The  sight  of  their  wounds — the  stench 
of  the  places  they  inhabited  on  first 
•landing — kept  them  away,  even  from 
the  vicinity  of  these  buildings.  But 
she  used  to  go  with  her  father  or  with 
Antoine.  I  can  see  her  before  me,  even 
now,  starting  on  these  errands  of  mer- 
cy ;  her  face  literally  beaming  with  joy; 
her  large  straw  hat  shielding  it  from 
the  sun ;  the  wide  pockets  of  her  green 
silk  apron  filled  with  sweetmeats  and 
biscuits,  whilst  some  of  our  own  slaves 
carried  behind  her  fruit  and  wine  and 
cooling  drinks.  The  angel  in  the 
fiery  furnace,  breathing  a  moist  refresh- 
ing wind  through  its  flames,  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  welcome  than 
this  dear  child  in  those  haunts  of  woe. 
She  used,  her  father  told  me,  to  kiss 
the  children  and  embrace  the  women. 
He  hardly  liked  to  see  her  do  it,  so 
loathsome  sometimes  were  those  poor 
wretches ;  but  the  effect  was  unfailing. 
Their  hearts  were  touched,  and  despair 
vanished  before  her  like  a  dark  mist 
before  the  sunshine.  And  it  was  all 
done  so  simply,  so  joyously  !  It  was 
such  a  real  joy  to  her.  When  notice 
was  given  us  of  the  arrival  of  a  ship 
laden  with  slaves,  her  impatience  to 
rush  to  the  port,  her  active  prepara- 
tions, her  solicitude  as  to  the  selection 
of  her  little  gifts  and  offerings,  was 
like  that  of  an  affectionate  child  an- 
ticipating the  arrival  of  much-loved 
relatives.  M.  de  Saxe,  am  I  wearying 
you?" 

"Madame,  I  remember  once  saying 
to  your  angelic  daughter,  that  next  to 
fighting  battles,  I  loved  to  .hear  of 
them.  Next  to  the  happiness  of  per- 
forming heroic  deeds,  is  that  of  listen- 
ing to  the  record  of  such  a  life  as 
hers." 

"  We  saw  that  she  was  growing  every 
day  more  delicately  fair,  her  complex- 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


253 


ion  more  transparent,  and  the  light  in 
her  eyes  more  unearthly  in  its  bright- 
ness. But  there  was  no  feebleness  in 
her  step — no  alteration  in  her  spirits. 
She  was  always  ready  for  every  exer- 
tion. No  call  upon  her  strength  seemed 
to  tax  it  too  much.  She  used  to  ride 
with  her  father,  or  with  our  old  servant 
if  he  was  too  busy,  to  every  hut  in  the 
neighbourhood  where  there  was  sick- 
ness, to  every  spot  where  help  or  con- 
solation was  needed.  Sometimes,  if  a 
great  wrong  was  done,  or  some  act  of 
cruelty  committed  towards  a  slave 
which  she  could  not  prevent,  a  passion- 
ate burst  of  grief  and  indignation 
would  shake  her  frail  form,  and  bring 
out  a  crimson  spot  upon  the  marble 
paleness  of  her  cheek.  She  would  go 
into  a  church,  or  into  her  own  little 
room,  and  I  have  heard  her  pray  for 
hours  prostrate  on  the  ground.  I  have 
no  doubt  her  prayers  were  heard,  and 
often  obtained  what  she  sought. 

"  Three  years  and  more  had  elapsed 
since  we  had  left  France.  One  day  a 
letter  came  which  announced  the  ap- 
proaching arrival  of  the  Chevalier  de 
la  Croix.  A  singular  feeling  came  over 
both  my  husband  and  myself,  as  we 
found  afterwards,  though  at  the  time 
we  did  not  know  how  to  put  it  into 
words,  and  did  not  mention  it  to  each 
other.  We  wished  as  much  as  ever 
this  marriage  to  take  place,  but  we 
dreaded  to  speak  of  it  to  Mina.  Less 
than  ever  we  felt  that  she  could  be  con- 
strained in  the  free  exercise  of  her 
choice  of  a  state  of  life.  Perhaps  she 
would  still  plead  the  old  promise,  the 
old  allegiance  she  had  alleged  three 
years  before.  She  had  not  alluded  to 
it  again,  nor  had  we  spoken  to  her  of 
marriage.  Letters  had  passed  between 
her  and  Ontara.  He  seemed  to  be 
making  rapid  progress  in  knowledge 
and  in  virtue.  In  two  years  his  studies 
would  be  finished,  and  then  he  hoped 
to  visit  us  in  our  new  home.  One  day, 


about  this  time,  she  received  one  from 
him,  and  the  expression  in  her  face 
whilst  she  read  it,  immediately  showed 
me  that  its  contents  were  deeply  inter- 
esting. An  exclamation  burst  from  her 
lips ;  she  let  the  letter  drop,  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands  together,  she  bent  her 
head  over  them,  pouring  forth  thanks- 
givings, as  I  found  afterwards,  but  at 
the  moment  I  felt  uneasy,  not  knowing 
if  she  was  sorrowing  or  rejoicing.  But 
the  instant  she  raised  it,  I  saw  it  was 
joyful  emotion  which  filled  her  soul. 

"  What  is  it,  dearest  ? "  I  asked,  still 
feeling  anxious. 

"  *  I  am  too  happy ! '  she  cried. 
'Oh,  too,  too  happy!  It  is  what  I 
have  longed  and  prayed  for.  Ontara 
is  going  to  be  a  priest.  God  has  put 
it  into  his  heart  to  devote  himself  to 
His  service,  and  to  that  of  his  brethren. 
As  soon  as  he  is  ordained,  he  wftl  be 
sent  to  the  Missions  of  New  France  to 
preach  the  Gospel  to  his  own  people. 
Oh,  dearest  mamma,  I  am  so  happy; 
I  have  nothing  left  to  wish.  He  will 
do  for  them  what  I  could  never  have 
done.  Mamma,  you  know  the  Indians 
were  my  first  love,  though  I  am  so  fond 
of  our  poor  negroes  now.' 

"Well,  I  was  very  happy  also,  and 
yet  my  heart  was  not  free  from  a  vague 
uneasiness.  I  have  always  been  a  be- 
liever in  presentiments;  is  it  not  one 
of  our  German  traditions  ?  Some  days 
afterwards  we  spoke  to  Mina  of  Raoul's 
approaching  arrival,  and  her  father 
said  to  her : 

" '  Now,  my  Mina,  that  Ontara  has 
renounced  every  worldly  tie,  I  suppose 
you  consider  yourself  free  from  a  prom- 
ise which  we  always  told  you  was  not 
binding  ? ' 

"  She  smiled,  and  answered — 

"  *  Oh  yes,  he  gives  me  back  my  prom- 
ise in  his  lost  letter.  I  do  not  think 
he  thought  of  it,  of  late  at  least,  as 
seriously  as  I  did/ 

"  *  And  have  you  now  any  difficulty 


254 


TOO    STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


in  receiving  Raoul  de  la  Croix  as  your 
future  husband  ? ' 

"I  have  never  forgotten  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  when  this  question  was 
put  to  her.  She  did  not  seem  troubled 
or  grieved,  or  glad,  but  a  tender, 
thoughtful  look  came  over  it.  She 
took  up  her  long  accustomed  position 
between  us,  joined  our  hands  together, 
and  then  kissing  them,  said,  'Would 
it  make  you  happy  ? '  Her  father  said, 
'  Yes.'  I  kissed  her  without  speaking. 
*  Let  him  come,1  she  said ;  '  dear 
Raoul,  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  him.' 
My  dear  friend,  he  came,  and  she  re- 
ceived him  with  that  holy  serenity  of 
expression  which  you  see  in  her  picture. 
It  was  taken  at  that  time.  She  showed 
him  much  affection,  maidenly,  tender, 
gentle  love.  He  was  all  that  we  could 
desire,  good,  generous,  and  brave.  He 
had  treasured  up  in  his  heart  the  re- 
membrance of  Mina,  as  he  had  known 
her  at  fourteen,  and  he  all  but  wor- 
shipped the  girl  of  seventeen  who  was 
about  to  become  his  wife ;  but  he  has 
since  told  me  that  though  he  fell  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  her,  he  had, 
from  the  first  moment  of  his  arrival,  a 
misgiving  that  there  was  something 
too  pure,  too  ethereal,  he  had  almost 
said,  too  divine  about  her  for  an  earth- 
ly bride.  I  think  myself  that  she  had 
a  clear  presentiment  of  her  approaching 
death,  and  did  not  expect  to  live  to 
marry  him.  She  seemed  very  happy 
during  the  weeks  which  followed  his 
arrival.  Two  or  three  times  she  said, 
'  I  am  so  glad  Raoul  is  come.  I  am  so 
glad  you  will  have  a  son.'  I  used  to 
listen  to  his  joyous  laugh  and  her 
sweet  voice  mingling  together,  as  they 
sat  on  the  seashore,  like  the  whispering 
of  the  breeze  and  the  ripple  of  the 
waves.  She  seemed  willing  to  give  up 
much  of  her  time  to  him,  and  was 
always  ready  to  talk  and  to  laugh 
when  he  was  in  the  humour  for  it. 
Poor  Raoul !  he  is  now  married,  and 


has  children,  but  I  do  not  think  as 
long  as  he  lives  he  will  forget  those 
conversations  in  the  shaddock  grove, 
by  the  blue  southern  sea.  I  observed 
that  she  visited  by  turns  all  her  poor 
negroes,  and  made  them  little  presents 
as  if  taking  leave  of  them,  though 
nothing  had  yet  been  said  about  her 
departure  from  Bourbon.  We  knew 
she  must  go  to  Europe  if  she  married, 
but  no  definite  time  had  been  men- 
tioned." 

Madame  d'Auban  paused,  and  the 
Marechal  de  Saxe  exclaimed  abruptly, 
"You  cannot  go  on.  I  am  sure  you 
cannot  go  on  ! "  His  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I will  tell  you  all. 
This  is  probably  the  last  time  we  shall 
meet,  and  the  last  time  I  shall  speak 
of  her  to  one  whom  I  knew  and  she 
knew.  I  should  not  have  done  so,  per- 
haps, but  that  a  short  time  before  she 
died,  she  said  she  hoped  I  should  see 
you  again,  and  that  I  was  to  give  you 
her  love." 

Tears  were  now  running  down  the 
marshal's  cheeks,  and  he  murmured, 
"God  bless  her!" 

"  It  was  one  morning,  on  a  very  hot 
day,  that  she  fell  ill,  that  is,  if  that 
painless,  quiet  sinking  into  the  arms 
of  death,  which  it  was,  could  be  called 
an  illness.  A  ship  laden  with  slaves 
had  arrived  in  the  night,  and  when 
she  heard  of  it,  as  usual,  she  prepared 
to  ride  to  St.  Denys.  But  when  on  the 
point  of  starting,  she  fainted  away,  and 
was  obliged  to  lie  down.  Antoine 
went  alone  with  their  usual  attendants. 
I  saw  a  change  in  her  face  and  in  her 
manner.  She  did  not  seem  grieved,  as 
she  would  usually  have  been,  to  give 
up  this  active  office  of  charity.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  felt  that  her  work  was 
done — as  if  the  signal  of  eternal  rest 
was  sounding  in  her  ears.  From  that 
moment  her  strength  did  not  rally. 
She  sat  or  reclined  in  the  shade,  with 


TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 


255 


her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky  or  on  the  sea, 
or  fondly  turning  from  one  loved  face 
to  another,  with  a  look  of  indescribable 
tenderness.  Not  one  of  them  to  whom 
she  was  so  dear,  felt  surprised  when  it 
became  evident  that  she  was  dying. 
Not  one  of  the  breaking  hearts  gather- 
ed round  that  angel  form  thought  to 
keep  her  on  earth.  Nor  father,  or 
mother,  or  lover.  She  was  too  fit  for 
heaven ;  too  clearly  on  her  way  home. 
The  work  of  a  life  had  been  done  in  a 
few  years.  The  earthly  frame  worn 
out ;  the  soul  breaking  its  bonds.  There 
was  wild  weeping  amongst  the  crowds 
that  gathered  round  our  doors,  when 
it  became  known  that  she  was  dying, 
and  prayers  were  put  up  in  all  the 
churches  for  her  recovery.  But  the 
word  recovery  had  no  meaning  for  us. 
We  bent  down  in  anguish,  but  did  not 
pray  to  detain  her. 

"  She  left 'us  fourteen  days  after  the 
one  on  which  the  slave-ship  had  ar- 
rived. Her  last  thought  was  for  the 
poor  wretches  it  had  brought.  The 
priest  who  gave  her  the  last  Sacra- 
ments, told  her  of  some  little  children 
born  during  the  passage,  whom  he  had 
just  time  to  baptize  before  they  died. 
She  smiled,  and  said,  '  Deo  gratia*."1 
Those  were  the  last  words  she  uttered." 

Madame  d'Auban  remained  silent. 
The  marshal  attempted  to  express 
sympathy,  but  broke  down  in  the  at- 
tempt. He  could  only  murmur : 

"  God  knows  I  feel  for  you,  madame, 
and  I  admire  your  fortitude.  Has  it 
never  forsaken  you  ? " 

Her  lip  quivered. 

"There  came  a  time  when  it  gave 
way,  Maurice.  For  seven  years  we  re- 
mained in  the  place  whence  she  was 
gone.  Her  father  took  up  her  work, 
and  as  long  as  he  lived  I  could  look 
calmly  on  those  bright  skies  and  those 
sunny  seas,  and  the  negroes  toiling  in 
the  fields.  He  was  stemming,  with  all 
his  might,  the  evils  of  their  lot.  He 


was  doing  what  she  had  done.  But 
when  he  was  taken  from  me,  he  on 
whom  I  leant  with  a  too  absorbing 
love,  when  for  a  while  resignation  was 
only  despair,  I  loathed  the  sight  of  all 
that  natural  beauty  and  that  moral 
misery.  I  longed  for  obscurity,  silence, 
and  shade.  Not  that  of  the  forest,  not 
that  of  the  green  glade  or  the  quiet 
valley.  I  fled  back  to  the  Old  World, 
to  the  deeper  solitude  of  a  city.  The 
dark  cathedral,  the  obscure  dwellings 
of  the  poor,  the  crowds  that  take  no 
heed  of  a  stranger,  and  this  little  room 
in  an  unfrequented  street,  are  more 
congenial,  more  soothing  to  me  now 
than  Nature's  loveliest  scenes,  more 
peaceful  than  its  most  silent  haunts." 

"  And  here  you  dwell  alone,  princess, 
alone  with  your  grief? " 

"  Say,  rather,  dear  friend,  alone  with 
blessed  memories,  alone  with  dearest 
hopes,  alone  with  God — bereft  of  all 
that  looks  like  happiness,  and  yet 
happy.  And  now  tell  me  something 
of  yourself,  Maurice,  and  speak  to  me 
of  my  sister's  children,  and  of  my 
brother.  I  sometimes  send  for  a  num- 
ber of  the  *  Gazette  de  France '  and  see 
their  names  in  it,  but  not  with  the  old 
painful  feelings  it  used  to  cause  me. 
I  think  my  heart  has  softened  tow- 
ards them,  towards  every  one  of  late 
years.  Is  it  true  what  I  read  fiome 
time  ago,  that  with  the  Mton  de  mare- 
chal,  his  Majesty  the  King  of  France 
has  given  you  the  domain  of  Chambord, 
with  a  right  royal  endowment  ? " 

"  It  is  perfectly  true,  princess.  For- 
tune has  been  a  kind  mistress  to  me, 
and  the  king  a  generous  master.  I 
have  nothing  to  complain  of  at  their 
hands,  and  yet  .  .  .  to-night  I  am 
almost  inclined  to  envy  you,  your  sor- 
rows, your  obscurity,  and  .  .  .  your 
faith.  I  believe  you  are  happier  than 
lam." 

Again,  as  when  they  had  first  spoken 
together,  she  smiled  in  her  old  way, 


256 


TOO     STRANGE    NOT    TO    BE    TRUE. 


and  the  face,  once  so  beautiful,  lighted 
up  for  a  moment.  They,  talked  a  long 
time,  that  night,  of  past  events.  They 
went  back  to  scenes  of  early  youth, 
and  then  kindly  and  sadly  parted 
never  to  meet  again.  He  died  a  short 
time  afterwards;  she  lived  to  an  ad- 
vanced age. 

With  him  passed  away  the  last  link 
between  her  and  the  world  she  once 


belonged  to.  She  lingered  long  on 
earth,  a  deceiver,  and  yet  true;  un- 
known, and  yet  known ;  as  one  dead, 
and  yet  alive;  sorrowful,  yet  always 
rejoicing;  needy,  and  yet  enriching 
many.  Her  life  was  a  mystery ;  her  story 
has  become  a  legend.  In  the  by-ways 
of  history  she  has  left  a  name,  which 
may  indirectly  point  a  moral,  whilst 
it  serves  to  adorn  a  tale. 


APPENDIX. 


PART  FIJK8T. 


THE  late  Lord  Dover  published,  in  the 
"Keepsake"  of  1833,  a  sketch  entitled 
"Vicissitudes  in  the  Life  of  a  Princess  of 
the  House  of  Brunswick."  It  is  on  the  inci- 
dents related  in  that  narrative  that  the  fore- 
going tale  is  founded.  They  are  given  on 
the  authority  of  M.  Bossu,  a  French  officer, 
whose  travels  in  Louisiana  are  well  known 
and  much  esteemed,  and  who  must  have 
been  made  acquainted  with  those  facts  whilst 
in  that  province.  The  English  author  adds  : 
"  Every  reader  of  this  anecdote  must  judge 
for  himself  as  to  the  degree  of  credence  he 
is  willing  to  give  to  it."  The  story  gained  so 
much  ground  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  the  Russian  Govern- 
ment put  forth  an  official  statement  for  the 
purpose  of  contradicting  and  disproving  it. 
Cox,  in  his  history  of  Russia,  dwells  at  some 
length  on  the  subject,  and  so  does  1'Eveque, 
the  French  historian.  They  both  quote  the 
Imperial  Manifesto,  which  states  that  the 
Czar  Peter  was  at  St.  Petersburgh  at  the  time 
of  the  princess's  death,  and  that  shortly  be- 
fore she  expired  he  had  an  interview  with 
her,  the  details  of  which  they  give.  It  also 
denies  that  the  Comtesse  de  Konigsmark  was 
ever  in  Russia.  Voltaire,  in  one  of  his  let- 
ters, speaks  of  the  supposed  Princess  as  of 
an  adventuress,  who  was,  he  says,  an  English- 
woman of  the  name  of  Sophia  Donaldson, 
and  who  turned  to  account,  in  carrying  on 
her  alleged  imposture,  a  strong  personal 
resemblance  to  the  wife  of  the  Czarovitch. 
He  says,  she  appeared  at  Wolfenbuttel  some 
years  after  the  prince's  death,  and  claimed  to. 
17 


be  received  as  his  widow  and  the  sister  of 
the  reigning  duke,  but  that  she  was  sent 
away  from  the  duchy,  and  a  sum  of  money 
privately  given  to  her,  which  latter  circum- 
stance does  not  seem  quite  hi  keeping  with 
the  assumption  that  her  claim  was  an  impos- 
ture. St.  Simon  mentions,  hx,  the  26th  vol- 
ume of  his  memoirs,  the  fact  of  the  prin- 
cess's death,  which,  he  says,  was  caused  by  a 
violent  blow  from  her  husband  when  she  was 
pregnant. 

He  adds  that  her  beauty,  her  virtues,  and 
her  accomplishments  would  have  deserved  a 
happier  fate,  but  makes  no  allusion  to  the 
story  related  by  M.  Bossu.  It  is  probable, 
however,  supposing  it  to  be  true,  that  it  would 
not  have  been  rumoured  hi  Europe  until  a 
period  subsequent  to  the  one  hi  which  St. 
Simon  wrote,  and  even  not  till  some  time 
after  his  death.  In  the  annual  register  for 
1777,  the  same  narrative  is  given  with  some 
variations  and  additional  circumstances, 
which  do  not  bear  any  appearance  of  truth. 


VICISSITUDES  IN  THE  LIFE  OP  A  PRIN- 
CESS OP  THE  HOUSE  OF  BRUNSWICK. 

BT    LORD    DOVXB. 

"ABOUT  the  year  1760,  there  lived  in  t In- 
city  of  Brussels,  hi  great  retirement,  an  old 
lady,  who  bore  the  name  of  Madame  d'Au- 
ban.  She  was  much  occupied  in  observances 
of  religion,  as  well  as  in  extensive  charities 
to  the  poor  of  her  neighbourhood,  who  re- 
garded her  as  their  benefactress.  She  had 
passed  some  years  in  this  circle  of  duties, 


258 


APPENDIX. 


unnoticed  by  the  great  or  the  gay,  and  appar- 
ently without  connections  or  relatives.  Yet 
none  in  that  city  were  born  of  higher  lineage, 
or  wedded  to  greater  hopes;  nor  had  any 
other  of  its  inhabitants  probably  endured  so 
great  a  variety  of  prosperity  and  adversity, 
and  of  romantic  changes  of  fortune,  which 
almost  exceed  the  bounds  of  credibility. 

"  Lewis  Rodolphus,  Duke  of  Brunswick 
Wolfenbuttel,  married  Christina  Louisa,  Prin- 
cess of  Oettingen,  who  bore  him  three  daugh- 
ters. The  eldest,  Elizabeth  Wilhelmina,  mar- 
ried Charles  the  Sixth,  Emperor  of  Germany, 
and  slumbered  through  a  tranquil  life  of  Aus- 
trian precision  and  etiquette.  Far  different 
was  the  lot  of  her  youngest  *  sister,  the  Prin- 
cess Charlotte  Sophia ;  though  she  also  was 
destined  to  marry  into  an  imperial  house. 
On  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  October,  17'll,  she 
became  the  ill-fated  wife  of  Alexis  Petrowitz, 
Prince  of  Russia,  the  eldest  son  of  Peter  the 
Great.  The  marriage  took  place  at  Torgau, 
in  Germany,  and  the  young  bridegroom  was 
in  the  twenty-second  year  of  his  age.  The 
czarowitz  was  a'  man  of  ferocious  manners, 
and  his  habits  of  debauchery  had  greatly  in- 
creased his  natural  brutality.  He  is  also  said 
to  have  taken  a  violent  aversion  to  his  un- 
happy wife,  and  to  have  attempted  no  less 
than  three  different  tunes  to  poison  her. 
Happily,  the  Princess,  upon  all  these  occa- 
sions, received  such  speedy  succour,  that  her 
life  was  preserved.  But  the  ill-treatment  she 
received  from  her  barbarous  husband  con- 
tinued to  increase.  Nor  was  there  any  one 
at  this  tune  at  the  court  of  Russia  who  could 
control  the  violences  and  the  outrages  of  the 
czarowitz,  as  Peter  the  Great  and  the  czarina 
Catherine  were  occupied  in  visiting  foreign 
countries. 

"  At  length,  one  day,  when  the  Princess 
was  eight  months  gone  with  child,  her  hus- 
band attacked  her  with  greater  fury  than 
ever,  knocked  her  down,  kicked  her  while 
she  lay  on  the  ground,  and  left  her  bathed  in 
blood.  He  then  set  off  for  one  of  his  coun- 
try houses,  without  deigning  to  make  any 
further  inquiries  respecting  his  unhappy  vic- 
tim. The  consequence  of  the  ill-treatment 

*  The  second  Princess  of  Brunswick,  Antonetta 
Amelia,  married  Ferdinand  Albert,  Duke  of  Bruns- 
vrick  Severn. 


she  had  received  was  a  premature  labour, 
which  her  attendants  determined  to  take  ad- 
vantage of,  to  deliver  the  Princess  for  ever 
from  the  hands  of  her  unworthy  husband. 
They  therefore  sent  a  courier  to  him,  to  in- 
form him  of  her  death.  The  czarowitz  re- 
turned for  answer,  an  order  for  her  imme- 
diate interment  as  privately  as  possible,  hop- 
ing by  speed  and  secrecy  to  prevent  the 
public  from  becoming  aware  of  the  manner 
hi  which  he  had  behaved  towards  her. 

"  The  funeral  of  the  Princess  accordingly 
took  place,  but  her  coffin  only  contained  a 
log  of  wood.  In  the  meanwhile,  and  whilst 
all  the  courts  of  Europe  were  wearing  mourn- 
ing for  her  supposed  decease,  she  had  escaped 
from  the  palace  in  which  she  usually  resided. 

"  The  Countess  Konigsmark,  who  had  been 
one  of  the  mistresses  of  Augustus  the  Second, 
King  of  Poland,  and  was  the  mother  by  him 
of  the  celebrated  Marechal  de  Saxe,  was  at 
this  time  at  the  court  of  the  Princess  of 
Russia.  It  was  to  her  assistance  and  man- 
agement that  the  princess  principally  owed 
her  escape.  She  collected  for  her  whatever 
of  money  or  of  jewels  could  be  found  in  the 
palace ;  gave  her  an  old  and  trustworthy 
man-servant  of  her  own,  who  spoke  French 
and  German,  to  accompany  her,  and  one  of 
her  own  femmes-de-chambre.  Thus  attend- 
ed, the  Princess  set  off  for  Paris,  where  she 
arrived  without  accident.  Fearing,  however, 
lest  she  might  be  recognized  in  that  capital, 
she  determined  to  go  to  America.  With  this 
view  she  went  to  1'Orient,  from  which  port 
the  vessels  belonging  to  the  company  of  the 
Indies,  to  whom  the  king  had  conceded  the 
right  of  colonizing  Louisiana,  otherwise  called 
the  Mississippi,  were  accustomed  to  sail. 

"  The  Princess  embarked  in  a  packet  with 
eight  hundred  other  Germans,  who  were  on 
their  way  to  the  newly-settled  colony.  Her 
faithful  servant,  who  passed  on  board  the 
vessel  for  her  father,  and  her  maid,  still  ac- 
companied her.  She  arrived  in  safety  at  the 
place  of  her  destination.  The  appearance  of 
the  young  and  beautiful  stranger  in  this  wild 
colony  excited  universal  admiration.  The 
Chevalier  d'Auban,  an  officer  of  merit,  who 
at  that  time  resided  hi  the  colony,  and  who 
had  formerly  been  at  Petersburg!!  soliciting 
an  employment  hi  the  Russian  service,  saw 


APPENDIX. 


259 


and  recognized  the  Princess.  At  first  he 
could  hardly  believe  the  testimony  of  his 
eyes ;  but  after  seeing  her  frequently,  and 
examining  attentively  her  air,  her  counte- 
nance, and  her  features,  he  could  no  longer 
doubt  that  the  obscure  exile  was  the  same 
person  whom  he  had  formerly  beheld  sur- 
rounded by  a  brilliant  court.  He  had  the 
prudence  not  to  confide  his  discovery  to  any 
one ;  but  feeling  a  natural  interest  in  the  for- 
tunes of  so  illustrious  an  exile,  he  contrived 
to  acquire  the  intimacy  and  confidence  of  her 
old  and  faithful  servant,  who  has  been  already 
mentioned. 

"  At  length  the  old  man  confided  to  him, 
that  he  and  his  family  were  desirous  of  mak- 
ing a  settlement  on  the  banks  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, for  which  purpose  he  had  brought  with 
him  a  sufficient  sum  of  money ;  and  he  pro- 
posed at  the  same  time  to  the  chevalier  to 
unite  his  fortunes  with  theirs  in  the  under- 
taking. D'Auban  accepted  with  readiness, 
joined  his  funds  to  those  of  the  strangers, 
and  undertook  the  management  of  the  whole 
concern ;  for  which,  from  his  habits  of  busi- 
ness, he  was  peculiarly  well  qualified.  The 
chevalier  thus  acquired  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  the  Princess  daily,  of  exerting  himself 
with  zeal  in  her  service,  and  of  showing  her 
upon  all  occasions  the  most  respectful  attach- 
ment and  devotion. 

"  One  day,  when  he  found  himself  alone 
with  her,  he  could  no  longer  resist  telling  her 
the  secret  which  he  had  discovered.  He  fell 
at  her  feet,  and  acknowledged  that  he  knew 
her.  This  avowal  at  first  caused  the  Princess 
no  less  surprise  than  pain  ;  but  after  a  time 
she  became  reassured,  from  reflecting  upon 
the  prudence  and  attachment  which  she  had 
witnessed  in  the  chevalier.  She  therefore 
contented  herself  with  thanking  him  for  his 
previous  kindness,  and  making  him  enter  into 
a  solemn  engagement  that  he  would  keep  her 
secret  inviolably. 

"  Some  time  after  this  occurrence,  the  Eu- 
ropean newspapers  which  arrived  at  New 
Orleans  brought  accounts  of  the  catastrophe 
and  death  of  the  czarowitz.  The  Princess, 
who  was  civilly  dead  hi  Europe,  and  who 
besides  was  happy  hi  the  obscure  but  tran- 
quil situation  in  which  fate  had  now  placed 
her,  preferred  remaining  in  the  New  World, 


and  leaving  her  friends  and  relatives  hi  the 
Old  ignorant  of  her  existence.  At  length  she 
had  the  misfortune  to  lose  her  faithful  ser- 
vant, who  had  followed  her  over  more  than 
half  the  globe. 

"  His  death  overwhelmed  the  Princess  with 
grief:  she  felt  at  first  as  if  she  had  lost  her 
only  friend.  But  the  redoubled  zeal  and 
activity  of  the  Chevalier  d'Auban,  who  now 
undertook  the  entire  management  of  her 
affairs,  enabled  her  to  struggle  through  her 
difficulties.  The  respectful  tenderness  of  the 
feelings  which  the  chevalier  entertained  for 
her  had  also  not  escaped  her.  He  seemed 
but  to  exist  for  the  purpose  of  furthering  and 
executing  her  wishes,  almost  before  they  were 
formed  hi  her  own  breast  He  treated  her 
at  the  same  tune  with  the  homage  due  to  a 
sovereign,  while  his  whole  life  was  spent  in 
striving  to  make  her  forget  her  sorrows,  and 
hi  procuring  for  her  whatever  comforts  or 
pleasures  that  wild  region  afforded. 

"  His  merits,  his  capacity,  and  his  zeal,  at 
length"  touched  the  heart  of  the  Princess,  and 
she  became  his  wife.  And  thus  was  united 
to  a  captain  of  infantry,  in  a  country  peopled 
with  negroes,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  savage 
natives,  a  princess,  bora  herself  of  a  sovereign 
house,  the  widow  of  the  heir  of  one  of  the 
vastest  empires  of  the  world,  and  the  sister 
of  the  Empress  of  Germany.  The  newly- 
married  couple  lived  happily,  and  struggled 
contentedly  through  all  the  difficulties  which 
must  accompany  a  residence  in  a  newly-settled 
country.  The  Princess  did  not  disdain  to 
assist  her  husband  hi  the  labours  of  the  es- 
tablishment. Time  passed  rapidly  away,  and 
Heaven  blessed  their  union  with  a  daughter, 
whom  Madame  d'Auban  nursed  herself,  and  to 
whom  she  taught  her  own  language,  German. 

'  After  some  years  of  tranquil  happiness, 
passed  in  the  manner  here  described,  the 
Chevalier  d'Auban  was  attacked  with  a  dis- 
order which  required  surgical  aid.  He  there- 
lore  sold  his  property  in  Louisiana,  and  "«»n* 
to  Paris,  with  the  view  of  obtaining  it.  Mad- 
ame  d'Auban  nursed  her  husband  with  the 
tenderest  affection.  During  the  convales- 
cence of  the  chevalier,  she  sometimes  went 
with  her  daughter  to  walk  hi  the  gardens  of 
the  Tuileries.  One  day,  as  she  was  talking 
lerman  to  her,  the  Count  de  Saxe,  who  was 


260 


APPENDIX. 


passing  along  the  same  walk,  and  who  was 
attracted  by  the  sound  of  his  native  language, 
approached  them.  What  was  his  surprise, 
on  recognizing  hi  the  elder  of  the  two  stran- 
gers the  Princess  of  Russia,  whom  he,  with 
the  rest  of  the  world,  had  imagined  to  have 
died  many  years  before. 

"  Madame  d'Auban,  upon  his  discovering 
to  her  that  he  knew  her,  implored  him  to 
guard  her  secret;  and  then  related  to  him  in 
what  manner  the  Countess  Konigsmark  had 
favoured  her  escape  from  Petersburgh.  The 
Count  de  Saxe  promised  what  she  wished 
with  regard  to  the  world  in  general;  but 
informed  her,  that  he  should  feel  it  his  duty 
to  state  the  circumstance  to  the  King  of 
France.  The  -Princess  then  entreated  him, 
at  all  events,  not  to  make  the  disclosure  for 
the  space  of  three  months.  The  count  con- 
sented to  this ;  and  then  demanded  the  per- 
mission to  come  and  see  her ;  to  which  she 
agreed,  on  condition  that  he  would  only  come 
at  night,  and  alone. 

"  In  the  meanwhile  the  Chevalier  d'Auban 
had  recovered  his  health,  but  found  his  means 
of  subsistence  nearly  exhausted.  He  solicited 
and  obtained  from  the  French  East  India 
Company  the  situation  of  major  of  the  Island 
of  Bourbon.  The  Count  de  Saxe  paid  visits 
from  time  to  time  to  the  Princess ;  and  at 
length,  when  the  three  months  were  expired, 
he  went  to  her  house,  in  order  to  inform  her 
that  the  time  was  now  arrived  when  he  in- 
tended to  mention  her  name  to  the  king. 
Upon  arriving  at  her  lodging,  he  was  much 
astonished  to  find  that  she  had  set  off,  with 
her  husband  and  her  daughter,  for  the  Island 
of  Bourbon. 

"  The  Count  de  Saxe  went  immediately  to 
the  king,  and  told  him  the  whole  story.  The 
king  sent  in  consequence  for  his  minister,  and 
ordered  him  to  write  to  the  governor  of 
Bourbon,  desiring  him  to  treat  Madame  d'Au- 
ban with  the  greatest  respect  and  attention. 
His  majesty  also  wrote,  with  his  own  hand, 
a  letter  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  though  he 
was  at  that  time  at  war  with  that  sovereign, 
to  give  her  information  respecting  the  fate 
of  her  aunt.  The  queen  returned  an  answer 
of  thanks  to  the  king,  and  sent  him  a  letter, 
to  be  forwarded  to  Madame  d'Auban,  in  which 
Bhe  entreated  her  to  come  to  her,  and  to 


leave  her  husband  and  daughter,  for  whom 
the  King  of  France  would  provide. 

"  This  offer  the  Princess  at  once  and  per- 
emptorily refused.  She  remained  in  the 
Island  of  Bourbon  until  the  year  1754,  when, 
having  become  a  widow,  and  having  also  lost 
her  daughter,  she  returned  to  Paris.  From 
thence  she  went  to  Brussels,  where  she  re- 
mained till  her  death,  in  extreme  old  age ; 
subsisting  upon  a  pension  of  sixty  thousand 
florins  (given  her  by  the  House  of  Brunswick), 
of  which  she  devoted  three-fourths  to  objects 
of  charity  and  benevolence." 

PART  I.     CHAPTER  I. 

Translation  of  a  letter  from  the  Pere  RasleSj 

Missionary  in  the  Nouvelle  France,  to  his 

nephew. 

"  THE  village  of  Narantsouak,  where  I  live, 
is  situated  on  the  banks  of  a  river  which 
flows  into  the  sea  at  about  thirty  leagues 
distance  from  it.  I  have  built  here  a  neat 
and  well-ornamented  church.  I  have  spared 
no  pains  to  make  every  thing  belonging  to 
the  Divine  service  handsome  and  suitable. 
The  vestments,  chasubles,  chalices,  &c.,  are 
all  such  as  would  be  admired  hi  Europe.  I 
have  formed  a  body  of  forty  young  savages, 
to  whom  I  assign  various  functions.  Some 
sing  in  the  choir,  some  serve  at  mass  and 
benediction,  a  great  number  of  Indians  come 
even  considerable  distances  to  join  in  our 
processions.  You  would  be  surprised  to  see 
how  well  they  behave,  an£  how  pious  they 
are. 

"Two  chapels  have  been  built,  at  three 
hundred  steps  from  the  village ;  one  is  dedi- 
cated to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  contains  her 
Image,  the  other,  further  down  the  stream,  is 
dedicated  to  the  Angel  Guardians.  We  have 
always  a  great  abundance  of  lights  at  all  the 
services.  The  green  wax  which  is  made  out 
of  the  bays  of  a  particular  sort  of  laurel, 
which  grows  abundantly  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  enables  us  to  do  this  with  great 
facility.  As  these  chapels  are  on  the  road 
which  leads  to  the  woods  and  to  the  fields, 
the  savages  always  stop  a  moment  on  their 
way  as  they  pass  them  to  say  a  prayer.  There 
is  a  holy  rivalry  between  the  women  of  the 
village  as  to  who  shall  decorate  and  embellish 


APPENDIX. 


261 


most  their  nearest  chapel  on  the  days  of  the 
processions.  They  devote  to  this  object  their 
jewels,  their  richest  stuffs  .  .  .  All  my 
converts  came  twice  a  day  to  church ;  very 
early  in  the  morning  to  hear  mass,  and  for 
night  prayers,  which  we  say  at  the  hour  of 
sunset.  As  it  is  necessary  to  fix  the  imagi- 
nations of  the  savages,  who  are  easily  dis- 
tracted, I  have  composed  prayers  and  hymns 
which  they  repeat  or  sing  during  the  holy 
sacrifice  of  the  mass,  and  which  instruct  them 
how  to  enter  into  its  spirit  Besides  regular 
sermons  on  Sundays  and  holydays,  I  give 
them  on  most  days  a  short  instruction  to 
warn  them  against  their  most  habitual  temp- 
tations, and  strengthen  them  in  the  practice 
of  virtue.  After  mass  I  teach  the  catechism 
to  the  young  people  and  children ;  a  great 
many  adults  attend  it  and  answer  my  ques- 
tions with  great  docility.  The  rest  of  the 
morning  till  twelve  o'clock,  is  devoted  to 
speaking  with  all  those  who  come  to  see  me 
for  various  reasons.  They  confide  to  me 
their  sorrows  and  difficulties,  or  tell  me  their 
grievances,  or  consult  me  about  their  mar- 
riages and  other  affairs.  I  have  to  instruct,  to 
comfort,  to  mediate,  to  calm  uneasy  con- 
sciences, to  reprove  in  some  cases,  and,  in 
short,  to  work  hard  at  sending  them  all  away 
in  "good  dispositions.  In  the  afternoon  I  visit 
the  sick,  or  instruct  hi  their  cabins  those  who 
particularly  need  it  If  a  council  is  held, 
which  is  often  the  case,  hi  the  village,  I  am 
deputed  to  preside  at  it,  and  requested  to 
assist  at  its  deliberations.  I  approve  or  dis- 
sent from  their  resolutions  as  needs  be,  and 
I  find  them  always  ready  to  adhere  to  my 
advice.  When  they  give  a  feast  they  send 
for  me  to  say  grace.  The  guests  bring  a 
wooden  platter,  in  which  their  share  of  good 
things  is  placed,  and  they  carry  it  away  with 
them.  This  is  the  mode  of  entertaining  in 
this  part  of  the  world. 

"  In  the  midst  of  these  incessant  occupa- 
tions, you  can  scarcely  imagine  how  quickly 
time  goes  by.  At  one  time  I  could  not  find 
tune  to  say  my  office  or  to  sleep,  for  even 
in  the  night  the  savages,  who  do  not  excel 
In  the  virtue  of  discretion,  invaded  continually 
my  hut  But  some  years  ago  I  made  it  a 
rule  not  to  speak  to  any  one  after  night 
prayers,  until  after  mass  the  next  morning, 


and  I  absolutely  forbade  everybody  to  die* 
turb  me  during  those  hours  unless  for  some 
sufficient  reason,  such  as  a  person's  dangerous 
illness,  or  an  affair  that  did  not  brook  delay. 
I  am  now,  therefore,  generally  able  to  devote 
those  hours  to  prayer  and  repose. 

"  When  the  savages  go  on  their  fishing  or 
hunting  expeditions,  they  build  for  me  with 
logs  and  pieces  of  bark  a  temporary  chapel 
and  hut  in  the  neighbourhood  of  their  haunts  ; 
and  we  perform  our  religious  services  with 
the  same  reverence  and  the  same  numerous 
attendance  as  when  at  home.  This,  my  dear 
nephew,  is  a  sketch  of  my  mode  of  life.  As 
to  myself,  I  can  only  say  that  I  see  nothing 
but  savages,  and  hear  and  speak  nothing  but 
their  language.  My  food  is  very  simple.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  accustom  myself  to 
their  way  of  dressing  meat  and  fish,  so  that 
I  never  eat  any  thing  but  maize,  which  I  make 
into  a  kind  of  paste  by  boiling  it  and  sweet- 
ening it  with  the  syrup  of  the  maple  tree, 
which  grows  in  abundance  in  this  country, 
and  produces  sugar  almost  as  good  as  that 
of  the  sugar  canes."  * 

PART  I.    CHAPTER  H. 

"  SIMON,  with  a  few  hirelings,  was  come 
from  the  Illinois,  and  had  been  waiting  for 
us  for  two  or  three  months.  Simon  is  a 
bargeman  from  the  Mission  of  the  Illinois. 
They  call  here  hirelings  (engages),  the  men 
who  hire  themselves  out  to  row  a  barge  or  a 
boat,  and  one  might  add,  to  try  the  patience 
of  those  they  convey."  f 

PART  I.    CHAPTER  VL 

The  following  extract  from  Thackeray1* 
"  Four  Georges  "  give*  evidence  of  the  *ye> 
tern  of  religion*,  or  rather  non-religion 
system  of  education,  prevalent  in  the  north- 
ern court*  of  Germany  in  the  la*t  century. 

"  It  was  the  first  Elector  of  Hanover  who 
made  the  fortunate  marriage  which  bestowed 
the  race  of  Hanoverian  sovereigns  upon  us 
Britons.  Nine  years  after  Charles  Stuart  lost 
his  head,  hia  niece  Sophia,  one<of  many  i-hil- 

*  Lettrcs  curteusw  et  MUUotM,  fth  voltuno, 


«t  MiflantM,  6th  volum* 


t  Lettw* 


262 


APPENDIX. 


dren  of  another  luckless  dethroned  sovereign, 
the  Elector  Palatine,  married  Ernest  Augus- 
tus of  Brunswick,  and  brought  the  reversion 
of  the  crown  of  the  three  kingdoms  in  her 
scanty  trousseau.  One  of  the  handsomest, 
the  most  cheerful,  sensible,  shrewd,  accom- 
plished of  women  was  Sophia,  daughter  of 
Frederick  the  winter,  King  of  Bohemia.  .  The 
other  daughters  of  lovely  Elizabeth  Stuart 
went  off  into  the  Catholic  Church ;  this  one, 
luckily  for  her  family,  remained,  I  cannot  say 
faithful  to  the  Protestant  religion,  but  at  least 
she  adopted  no  other.  An  agent  of  the 
French  king's,  Gourville,  a  convert  himself, 
strove  to  bring  her  and  her  husband  to  a 
sense  of  the  truth,  and  tells  us  that  he  one 
day  asted  Madame,  the  Duchess  of  Hanover, 
of  what  religion  her  daughter  was,  then  a 
pretty  girl  of  thirteen  years  old.  The  duchess 
replied  that  the  princess  was  of  no  religion  as 
yet.  They  were  waiting  to  know  of  what 
religion  her  husband  would  be,  Protestant  or 
Catholic,  before  instructing  her.  This  daugh- 
ter, of  whose  early  education  we  have  made 
mention,  was  married  to  the  Elector  of  Bran- 
denburgh,  and  so  her  religion  settled  finally 
on  the  Protestant  side. 

"  It  must  be  told  to  the  honour  of  Catherine 
of  Anspach  (who  afterwards  married  George 
II.),  that  at  a  time  when  German  princes 
thought  as  little  of  changing  their  religion 
than  you  of  altering  your  caps,  she  refused  to 
give  up  Protestantism  for  the  other  creed, 
although  an  archduke,  afterwards  to  be  an 
emperor,  was  offered  to  her  for  a  bridegroom. 
Her  Protestant  relations,  in  Berlin  were  angry 
at  her  rebellious  spirit.  It  was  they  who 
tried  to  convert  her ! " 


PART  I.    CHAPTER  VI. 

As  it  is  not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that 
the  same  customs  and  habits  prevailed  hi  the 
Court  of  Russia  during  the  earlier  part  of  the 
century,  as  existed  at  the  time  of  the  Em- 
press Catherine's  arrival  hi  that  country  in 
the  year  1744,  a  few  extracts  from  her  jour- 
nal are  given,  in  order  to  show  to  what  trials 
a  young  princess,  born  and  educated  in  a 
more  civilized  country,  would  have  been 
likely  to  endure  hi  that  semi-barbarous  court. 

Ten  days  after  her  arrival  at  St.  Peters- 


burgh,  the  young  Princess  Sophiah  Augusta 
Frederica  of  Anhalt-Zerbst-Bernbourg,  the 
betrothed  bride  of  Peter,  Duke  of  Holstein, 
the  heir  to  the  throne,  nephew  of  the  reign- 
ing Empress  Elizabeth,  and  "grandson  of 
Peter  the  Great,  writes  as  follows  :  "I  have 
now  three  masters  to  instruct  me.  Simon 
Theodorsky  teaches  me  the  Greek  religion ; 
Basil  Adadouroff  the  Russian  language  ;  and 
Laudet,  the  ballet-master,  dancing."  A  few 
days  later  the  princess  falls  dangerously  ill. 
Her  mother,  who  had  accompanied  her  to  the 
Court  of  Russia,  wishes  her  to  see  a  Lutheran 
clergyman,  but  the  future  empress  objects, 
sends  for  a  Greek  priest,  and  makes  the  fol- 
lowing remark,  with  reference  to  this  stroke 
of  policy: — "Simon  Theodorsky  came,  and 
we  conversed  hi  everybody's  hearing  in  a 
way  which  gave  general  satisfaction.  This 
brought  me  into  great  favour  with  the  em- 
press and  all  the  court." 

A  few  pages  on  she  mentions  the  advice 
which  she  receives  from  one  of  the  few 
friends  who  appears  to  have  taken  any 
interest  in  her  during  the  months  which 
preceded  her  marriage.  "  Count  Gillembourg 
(she  writes)  was  a  very  clever  man,  rather 
old,  and  highly  esteemed  by  my  mother.  I 
had  reason  to  be  grateful  to  him,  for  when 
we  had  seen  him  at  Hamburg  he  noticed  how 
little  my  mother  cared  for  me,  and  he  told 
her  she  was  wrong,  and  that  I  was  wise  be- 
yond my  years.  He  informed  me  I  had  a 
philosophical  turn  of  mind,  and  when  he 
came  to  St.  Petersburgh  he  enquired  how  my 
philosophy  thrived  in  the  midst  of  the  whirl- 
wind I  lived  in.  I  told  him  how  I  employed 
my  tune  in  my  own  room  ;  learning  the  Rus- 
sian language,  playing  on  the  pianoforte,  and 
reading  all  the  books  I  could  buy.  He  said 
that  a  philosopher  of  fifteen  years  of  age 
could  have  but  little  self-knowledge;  and 
that,  surrounded  as  I  was  by  numberless 
shoals,  unless  my  soul  was  of  a  very  superior 
order,  I  must  infallibly  be  shipwrecked,  and 
that  I  must  strengthen  my  soul  by  the  best 
possible  course  of  reading,  for  which  purpose 
he  recommended  me  to  get  Plutarch's  "  Lives 
of  Great  Men,"  "  Cicero's  Life,"  and  Montes- 
quieu's "  History  of  the  Greatness  and  the 
Decline  of  the  Roman  Empire."  I  imme- 
diately sent  for  those  books,  which  I  found 


APPENDIX. 


263 


it  very  difficult  to  procure  at  St.  Peters- 
burgh." 

Immediately  after  the  Princess's  marriage 
she  finds  out  that  spies  are  set  about  her. 
When  she  wishes  to  speak  to  one  of  her  bed- 
chamber women,  she  notices  her  affright 

"  For  God's  sake,  madam,"  the  attendant 
says,  "do  not  say  any  thing  to  me.  We 
have  received  strict  orders  never  to  speak 
with  you  in  a  low  voice,  or  but  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  first  woman  in  waiting."  One 
of  these  attendants,  the  cheerfulness  of  whose 
disposition  had  cheered  her  mistress,  who 
was  in  very  low  spirits  at  her  mother's  final 
departure  from  Russia,  and  the  brutal  and 
disgusting  conduct  of  her  youthful  husband, 
disappears  one  day.  The  Princess  asks  for 
her.  She  is  given  to  understand  that  Made- 
moiselle Toukoff  is  gone  to  see  her  sick 
mother.  The  empress  tells  her  the  next  day 
that  she  is  dismissed  and  is  on  her  way  to 
Moscow.  And  when  the  Princess  endeavours 
to  soften  her  disgrace  by  promoting  the  mar- 
riage of  Mademoiselle  Toukoff  with  an  officer 
of  the  Guards,  both  are  banished  to  Siberia. 
From  that  moment  forward  the  least  sign  of 
confidence  hi  or  of  preference  for  any  person 
of  her  household  proved  the  signal  for  an 
instant  dismissal.  The  discomforts  endured 
by  the  Princess  of  Anhalt  show  what  must 
have  been  those  experienced  by  the  Princess 
of  Wolfenbuttel  forty  years  before. 

"  Our  mode  of  travelling,"  she  says,  "  was 
wretched  and  disagreeable.  The  stations  and 
post-houses  were  occupied  by  the  empress. 
We  had  tents  put  up  for  us,  or  were  some- 
times lodged  in  the  servant's  offices.  I  re- 
member having  to  dress  one  day  near  an 
oven,  where  bread  had  just  been  baked  ;  and 
another  time  that  in  the  tent  where  my  bed 
was  placed  water  was  an  inch  deep.  There 
were  no  fixed  hours  either  for  rest  or  for 
meals,  and  we  were  often  tired  almost  to 
death.  I  felt  miserably  lonely,  and  my  spir- 
its were  deplorable.  I  had  recourse  to  books. 
Since  my  marriage  I  was  always  reading. 
Novels  at  first,  but  I  got  tired  of  them.  Then 
I  fell  in  with  Madame  de  Scvigne's  letters, 
which  amused  me ;  and  then  with  Voltaire's 
works,  which  I  read  from  beginning  to  i-wl" 
When  the  Princess's  father  died,  she  took  it 
naturally  to  heart,  and  cried  a  good  deal 


At  the  end  of  eight  days  she  got  a 
from  the  empress  to  say  that  her  imperial 
majesty  requested  her  to  leave  off  crying,  for 
that  her  father  was  not  a  king,  and  she  bad 
wept  quite  long  enough.  "  True,"  the  Prin- 
cess answered,  "he  was  not  a  king,  but  he 
was  my  father."  To  which  the  lady-in- 
waiting  replied,  "  It  is  not  befitting  that  a 
grand  duchess  should  weep  for  more  than 
eight  days  for  a  father  who  was  not  a  king." 
She  was  forbidden  to  write  herself  to  her 
mother,  for  the  letters  of  a  grand  duchess 
of  Russia  were  to  be  composed  by  the  Coun- 
cil for  Foreign  Affairs,  and  she  had  only  to 
sign  them.  When  she  begged  to  mention 
what  she  wished  to  be  said  in  these  letters,  it 
was  pointed  out  to  her  that  the  council  knew 
better  than  she  did  what  it  was  proper  for 
her  to  write.  She  says  again  later,  "  I  had 
been  for  many  years  forbidden  to  write  to  my 
mother."  The  moral  and  physical  sufferings 
endured  at  that  formal  but  uncivilized  court 
seem  to  have  been  on  a  par.  The  following 
account  testifies  to  the  latter  class  of  mis- 
eries:— 

"  This  year  we  lodged  in  a  new  whig,  built 
of  wood,  and  so  damp  that  the  water  was 
running  down  the  walls.  In  the  chamber 
called  my  dressing-room,  my  ladies  and  maids 
of  honour  and  their  waiting-maids  were  all 
lodged,  so  that  there  were  seventeen  women 
and  girls  sleeping  in  one  room,  which  had 
three  windows,  but  no  entrance  or  exit  but 
through  my  bed-room.  The  misery  and  dis- 
comfort of  this  arrangement  was  intolerable. 
I  do  not  know  how  those  seventeen  women 
crowded  in  one  room,  and  some  of  them  ill, 
did  not  breed  a  fever.  The  smell  was  dread- 
ful, and  my  poom  so  full,  in  consequence,  of 
vermin  of  all  sorts,  that  I  could  not  sleep." 

Another  of  the  habitations  for  a  while  oc- 
cupied by  the  grand  duke  and  grand  ducfaen 
is  thus  described : — 

"We  received  orders  to  remove  to  the 
bishop's  house.  This  was  a  very  old  house, 
built  of  wood,  with  no  look-out  at  all  The 
stones  were  so  old  and  so  full  of  holes  that 
one  could  see  the  fire  through  them,  and  the 
rooms  so  filled  with  smoke  that  it  hurt  our 
eyes.  There  was  only  a  wooden  staircase, 
and  the  windows  high  above  the  ground. 
One  was  liable  to  be  burnt  to  death  in  this 


264 


APPENDIX. 


abode.  Three  times  it  caught  fire  during  the 
time  we  lived  in  it ;  I  caught  on  one  of  these 
occasions  a  sore  throat  and  fever.  The  Aus- 
trian ambassador  noticed  one  day  the  redness 
of  my  eyes,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  been  cry- 
ing. He  was  not  mistaken.  Ennui,  ill 
health,  and  the  amount  of  moral  and  physical 
misery  I  was  subjected  to,  effectually  de- 
pressed my  spirits." 

In  support  of  the  account  given  in  the  17th 
chapter  of  the  foregoing  work,  of  the  isolation 
and  neglect  to  which  etiquette  and  courtly 
indifference  consigned  a  Russian  princess  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  of  the  separation 
from  her  children,  which  the  same  absolute 
rules  enforced,  the  following  extracts  are 
adduced : — 

"  In  the  month  of  August,  we  returned  to 
the  summer  palace.  It  was  a  mortal  blow 
to  me  when  I  heard  that  the  rooms  I  was  to 
occupy  at  the  time  of  my  confinement,  were 
those  adjoining  to  the  empress's  apartments. 
Alexander  Shouvaloff  took  me  to  see  them. 
I  found  two  rooms,  with  only  one  entrance, 
dull,  like  all  those  of  the  summer  palace,  with 
hangings  of  crimson  damask,  but  hardly  any 
furniture,  or  comforts  of  any  kind.  I  saw  I 
should  be  isolated,  without  any  sort  of  so- 
ciety, and  as  unhappy  as  possible.  I  men- 
tioned this  to  Serge  Soltikoff  and  to  Princess 
Gagarine,  who  did  not  like  each  other,  but, 
being  both  much  attached  to  me,  were,  on 
that  one  point,  united ;  but  they  agreed  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done.  I  was  taken  ill  in 
the  night  of  the  following  Tuesday,  and  Mad. 
ame  Vladislava  sent  for  the  midwife,  and 
woke  the  grand  duke  and  Count  Alexander 
Shouvaloff,  who  went  to  give  notice  to  the 
empress,  who  came  to  my  room  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  After  great  sufferings,  I  was 
brought  to  bed  at  about  twelve  o'clock,  A.M. 
As  soon  as  my  son  was  born  and  dressed,  the 
empress  sent  for  her  confessor,  who  gave  him 
the  name  of  Paul.  Then  she  told  the  mid- 
wife to  take  the  child  and  to  follow  her.  I 
remained  on  my  bed  of  suffering.  This  bed 
was  standing  between  a  door,  through  which 
I  could  see  the  light,  and  two  great  windows, 
which  shut  badly.  On  the  right  side  was  a 
door  opening  into  my  dressing-room ;  and  on 
the  left,  one  leading  to  Madame  Vladislava's 
room.  As  soon  as  the  empress  had  left,  the 


grand  duke  went  away  too ;  and  so  did  M. 
and  Madame  Shouvaloff;  and  nobody  came 
near  me  till  three  o'clock.  I  entreated  Mad- 
ame Vladislava  to  move  me  into  my  own  bed, 
but  she  said  she  could  not  venture  to  do  so 
on  her  own  authority.  She  sent  several 
times  for  the  midwife  but  she  did  not  come. 
I  asked  for  something  to  drink  and  received 
the  same  answer.  At  last,  at  three  o'clock, 
the  Countess  Shouvaloff  arrived  in  full  dress, 
having  made  a  grand  toilette.  When  she 
saw  me  lying  in  the  same  place  where  she 
had  left  me,  she  made  a  great  exclamation, 
and  said  it  was  enough  to  kill  me.  This  was 
very  consoling  for  me,  who  had  been,  as  it 
was,  crying  bitterly  since  the  moment  of  my 
confinement,  and  especially  at  the  utter  neg- 
lect with  which  I  was  treated;  lying  on  a 
hard  couch  after  horrible  sufferings,  between 
doors  and  windows  that  did  not  shut,  nobody 
daring  to  help  me  into  my  bed,  and  without 
strength  to  stir  alone.  Madame  Shouvaloff 
went  away,  and  half-an-hour  afterwards  the 
midwife  came.  She  said  the  empress  was  so 
taken  up  with  the  child  that  she  would  not 
let  her  go  for  a  moment.  As  to  me,  I  was 
not  thought  of  at  all.  I  was  dying  of  thirst. 
At  last  I  was  moved  into  my  bed ;  and, 
during  the  rest  of  the  day,  not  a  single  crea- 
ture came  near  me  or  sent  to  inquire  after 
me.  The  empress  never  left  the  child,  and 
the  grand  duke  did  nothing  but  drink  with 
his  companions.  The  city  and  country  were, 
meanwhile,  rejoicing  over  my  son's  birth. 
The  next  day  I  was  seized  with  violent  rheu- 
matic pains,  and  I  could  not  sleep,  and  had 
a  high  fever.  Still  nobody  took  any  heed  of 
me.  The  grand  duke  came  into  my  room 
for  a  minute,  and  went  away,  saying  he  had 
not  tune  to  remain.  I  did  nothing  but  moan 
and  weep.  Madame  Vladislava  was  the  only 
person  I  saw,  and  she  was  sorry  for  me,  I 
know.  But  she  could  do  nothing,  and  I  could 
not  endure  to  be  pitied.  My  pride  forbade 
me  from  avowing  how  wretched  I  was. 

"  On  the  sixth  day,  my  son  was  baptized. 
He  had  been  very  near  dying  of  croup.  I 
could  only  have  news  of  him  by  stealth,  for 
to  inquire  openly  after  his  health  would  have 
been  considered  as  a  proof  of  want  of  confi- 
dence in  the  empress,  who  had  taken  charge 
of  him,  and  it  would  have  given  great  offence. 


APPENDIX. 


261 


She  kept  him  in  her  own  room,  and  whenever 
he  cried  she  used  half  to  suffocate  him  by 
her  excess  of  care.  In  a  very  hot  room,  he 
was  kept  in  swaddling-clothes  made  of  flannel, 
in  a  cradle  lined  with  black  fur,  and  covered 
with  a  counterpane  of  pink  satin,  lined  with 
wadding,  and  another  one  above  it  of  pink 
velvet,  lined  with  black  fur.  I  have  seen  him 
smothered  in  this  way,  with  the  drops  of 
sweat  streaming  down  his  face;  the  conse- 
quence of  which  was,  that  when  he  grew 
older  the  least  breath  of  air  gave  him  cold. 
Besides  that,  he  was  surrounded  by  a  bevy 
of  ignorant  old  crones,  who,  by  dint  of  their 
senseless  modes  of  management,  injured  him 
both  physically  and  morally.  At  the  end  of 
forty  days,  the  empress  came  to  my  room 
again  for  my  churching.  I  had  risen  to  re- 
ceive her,  but  seeing  how  pale  and  weak  I 
was,  she  made  me  sit  down,  whilst  her  con- 
fessor read  the  prayers.  My  son  had  been 
brought  into  the  room.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  had  seen  him  since  his  birth.  I  thought 
him  very  handsome,  and  the  sight  of  him 
cheered  me  a  little.  But  no  sooner  were  the 
prayers  finished  than  the  empress  had  him' 
carried  away,  and  went  away  herself.  From 
Christmas  to  Lent  there  was  no  end  of  din- 
ners, balls,  masquerades,  illuminations,  and 
fire-works,  the  finest  in  the  world,  in  honour 
of  my  son's  birth.  I  pretended  to  be  ill  in 
order  not  to  be  present  at  any  of  them  .  . 

.  After  Easter,  we  went  to  Orianenbaum. 
Before  we  left  St.  Petersburgh,  the  empress 
permitted  me  to  see  my  son  for  the  third 
time  since  his  birth.  I  found  him  in  that 
suffocating  heat  I  have  already  described 
(the  child  was  then  six  months  old)." 

Some  years  afterwards  the  princess  wrote 
a  letter  to  the  Empress  Elizabeth,  in  which 
she  says — "  That  she  earnestly  entreats  her 
majesty  to  put  an  end  to  her  misery  by  send- 
ing her  back  to  her  family.  That,  as  she 
never  was  able  to  see  her  children  although 
living  under  the  same  roof,  it  did  not  signify 
whether  she  remained  in  the  same  house,  or 
was  a  hundred  leagues  away  from  them. 
That  she  was  aware  the  empress  took  much 
better  care  of  them  than  she  could  have  done ; 
and  that  she  therefore  craved  permission  to 
spend  the  rest  of  her  life  in  her  native  coun- 
try, praying  for  her  majesty,  the  grand  duke, 


her  children,  her  friends,  and  her  enemies, 
for  that  constraint  and  sorrow  had  impaired 
her  health,  so  as  to  put  h.-r  lit'.-  in  danger." 
Whether  or  not  this  letter  was  a  sincere 
expression  of  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  Prin- 
cess of  Anhalt,  it  gives  some  idea  of  the  suf- 
ferings she  had  experienced.  In  relating  a 
conversation  which  she  held  about  that  time 
with  Count  Woronzoff,  and  in  which  he  tried 
to  persuade  her  not  to  seek  to  leave  Russia, 
she  says: — "He  spoke  of  my  children.  I 
told  him  I  never  saw  them.  That  since  my 
churching  I  had  not  seen  my  second  daugh- 
ter. That  I  was  not  allowed  to  do  so  without 
a  special  order  from  the  empress,  near  whose 
room  they  were  lodged.  That  I  had  no  doubt 
she  took  great  care  of  them,  but  that  being 
deprived  of  the  happiness  of  seeing  them,  it 
did  not  signify  if  I  lived  in  the  same  place  as 
they  did  or  not.  About  this  tune  the  princess 
mentions  that  she  went  to  communion  in 
order  to  show  her  attachment  to  the  Greek 
religion."  The  whole  of  the  curious  volume 
from  which  these  extracts  are  taken  exhibits 
the  melancholy  influence  of  a  corrupt  court, 
a  depraved  entourage,  a  state  religion,  a 
ridiculous  etiquette,  and  a  disgusting  admix- 
ture of  luxury  and  barbarism,  on  the  charac- 
ter of  a  young  person  who,  at  fourteen,  was 
endowed  with  a  natural  love  of  virtue,  an  amia- 
ble disposition,  an  inclination,  as  she  herself 
states,  to  piety,  and  an  ambition  which  might 
have  been  directed  to  high  and  good  objects.* 
What  it  was  directed  to,  the  sequel  of  her 
history  evinced.  The  reign  of  the  Empress 
Catherine  is  the  moral  of  this  story.  The 
sufferings  and  the  trials  which  gradually  de- 
praved and  corrupted  her  were  probably  not 
dissimilar  to  those  which  drove  the  Princess 
of  Wolfenbuttel  from  the  palace  of  the  czar 
to  the  wilds  of  the  new  world ;  or,  if  our 
legend  of  modern  history  be  rejected,  broke 
her  heart,  and  consigned  her  to  an  early  grave 
in  the  flower  of  her  youth. 

PART  L    CHATTER  VIIL 

FOR  historical  evidence  of  the  horrible 

cruelties  exercised  by  the  C*ar  Peter  on  Ms 

rebellious  subjects ;  of  his  treatment  of  his 

wife  and  sister,  whom  he  condemned  to  the 

*  Iftmoires  do  1'ImptatrlM  O»th«rlne  IL  ocrlt. 
par  elle  m6m«  et  prioidA  d*OM  prifro*  pv  A  Hcnra. 


APPENDIX. 


punishment  of  the  knout ;  of  the  barbarities, 
startling  beyond  any  thing  recorded  of  the 
most  heathen  emperors,  which  he  inflicted  on 
the  revolted  Strelitz ;  of  his  personal  brutal 
violence  towards  his  victims,  and  the  insults 


with  which  he  aggravated  their  sufferings; 
of  his  coarse  buffoonery  and  cynical  impiety, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  the  recently-published 
diary  of  an  Austrian  Secretary  of  Legation  at 
the  Court  of  St.  Petersburgh. 


PART    SECOND. 


PAKT  II.       CHAPTER  H. 

"AFTER  forty  days  march  we  arrived  at 
the  first  village  of  the  Illinois.  On  the  next 
day  I  was  invited  by  the  principal  chief  to  a 
great  feast,  to  meet  the  most  important  per- 
sonages of  the  tribe.  When  all  the  guests 
were  arrived,  they  sat  down  hi  rows  round 
the  hut  on  the  ground,  or  some  of  them  on 
mats.  Then  the  chief  rose  and  began  his 
speech.  I  own  to  you  that  I  was  struck  with 
astonishment  at  the  fluency  of  his  language, 
the  strength  and  justice  of  his  reasoning,  the 
eloquent  turn  of  his  sentences,  the  choice  and 
the  delicacy  of  his  expressions.  I  am  per- 
suaded that  had  I  been  able  to  write  down 
what  this  savage  said,  without  preparation 
and  at  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  you  would 
have  acknowledged  that  the  cleverest  Euro- 
pean, with  study  and  care,  could  not  have 
composed  a  better  speech,  both  as  to  matter 
and  as  to  language."  * 


PART  II.     CHAPTER  II. 

Extract  from  "Vffistoire  Generalede  laNou- 
velle  France"  on  the  subject  of  the  Insur- 
rection of  the  Natches  in  the  year  1729. 

"  THE  governor-general,  without  being  aware 
of  it,  was  on  the  point  of  seeing  the  colony 
destroyed  by  enemies  he  did  not  fear,  and 
allies  on  which  he  fancied  he  could  rely — 
who  were,,  in  fact,  our  great  support,  but  who 
had  been  tempted  to  betray  us.  .  .  There 
was  not  a  single  French  habitation  secure 

*  Lettres  curieuses  et  6difiantes,  6th  volume, 
page  176. 


from  a  sudden  surprise.  In  a  few 
there  were  forts,  but  in  general  they  were 
only  defended  by  rows  of  half-rotted  wooden 
palings ;  which,  had  they  been  in  a  better 
state,  could  only  have  protected  the  habita- 
tions in  their  immediate  neighbourhood.  The 
security  was  so  general,  that  the  savages 
could  easily  have  massacred  the  French  even 
in  the  best-protected  localities,  as  happened 
at  the  Natches  in  the  way  I  am  about  to 
relate.  M.  de  Chepar  had  had  a  sh'ght  quar- 
rel with  this  tribe,  but  they  had  contrived, 
however,  to  persuade  him  that  the  French 
had  not  more  sincere  allies.  So  little  did  he 
apprehend  the  reverse,  that  when  a  rumour 
was  set  afloat  that  the  Natches  were  plotting 
against  us,  he  ordered  into  prison  seven 
French  colonists  who  had  asked  his  permis- 
sion to  arm  themselves  and  organize  a  system 
of  defence.  He  received  at  that  very  tune 
thirty  savages  within  the  fort,  and  as  many 
in  his  own  house  and  neighbourhood.  They 
were  mixed  up  everywhere  with  the  French — 
in  the  workmen's  huts,  and  the  habitations 
scattered  round  the  village. 

"  A  day  had  meanwhile  been  fixed  for  the 
general  massacre,  but  two  circumstances 
induced  the  Natches  to  hasten  it.  First,  the 
arrival  of  large  stores  of  merchandise,  which 
had  just  arrived  at  the  fort,  and  which  ex- 
cited their  cupidity ;  the  second  was,  that  the 
commander  had  several  colonists  staying  with 
him,  and  that,  on  pretext  of  seeking  game  to 
offer  him  for  the  entertainment  of  his  guests, 
they  could  arm  themselves  without  exciting 
suspicion.  The  commandant  gladly  accepted 
their  proposal,  and  they  went  about  buying 


APPENDIX. 


267 


and  powder,  ostensibly  for  the  use  of 
e  hunters. 

"On  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day, 
icy  dispersed  themselves  amongst  the  va- 
ous  habitations,  announcing  that  they  were 
roing  into  the  woods  for  this  famous  hunting 
.u  ty ;  and  took  care  so  to  arrange,  that  in 
ach  habitation  they  should  be  in  greater 
umber  than  the  French.  They  smoked  the 
alumet  in  honour  of  the  commander  and 
is  guests,  and  then  went  each  to  his  post 
L  moment  afterwards  three  guns  were  fired 
ose  to  M.  Chepar's  house.  This  was  the 
ignal  of  the  massacre.  The  Natchea  fell 
rerywhere  on  the  French.  The  commander 

rod  his  guests — amongst  whom  were  Messrs. 
oly  and  his  sons — were  amongst  the  first 
illed.  There  was  no  struggle,  except  in  the 
abitation  of  M.  de  la  Loire  des  Ursins,  where 
ght  Frenchmen  were  staying.  There  was 
ame  hard  fighting;  eight  of  the  Natches 
ere  killed,  and  six  Frenchmen ;  two  escaped. 
L  de  la  Loire  was  just  riding  out  on  horse- 
ack ;  at  the  report  of  the  first  gun  he  turned 
ack,  and  was  assailed  by  a  troop  of  savages, 

gainst  which  he  fought  some  time,  but  at 

ast  fell,  covered  with  wounds,  after  having 
died  four  Natches.  So  twelve  of  the  savages 
Ejrished.  But  that  was  all  their  loss  at  the 

iime  of  the  massacre. 

"Before  proceeding  to  the  execution  of 
eir  design,  they  had  secured  the  cooperation 
some  of  the  negroes.  They  persuaded 
em  that  they  would  be  delivered  from  sla- 
jry  by  the  savages;  that  our  women  and 
ildren  would  be  the  slaves  ;  and  that  they 
eed  have  no  fear  of  the  French  in  other 
aces,  as  the  massacre  would  take  place 
imultaneously  all  over  the  country.  It  ap- 
eare,  however,  that  the  plot  was  only  made 

cnown  to  a  few,  for  fear  of  discovery.  Two 
radred  Frenchmen  died  on  this  occasion ;  a 
undred  and  fifty  children,  eighty  women, 
td  as  many  negroes,  were  made  prisoners, 
ather  Poissan,  a  Jesuit,  and  M.  de  Codere, 
e  governor  at  the  Yasous,  who  happened 
be  at  the  Natches,  perished  also.  The 
rmer  was  going  on  some  business  from  his 

oissions  at  the  Arkansas  to  New  Orleans, 
e  arrived  on  the  26th,  rather  late  in  the 
ening,  at  the  Natches,  meaning  to  set  off 

tgain  on  the  next  day  immediately  after  say- 


ing  mass.  However,  as  the  priest  of  the 
mission  was  absent,  Father  Poissan  was  en- 
treated to  sing  high  mass  and  to  preach  on 
the  next  day,  as  it  was  the  first  Sunday  hi 
Advent  He  agreed  to  do  so.  In  the  even- 
ing, as  he  was  about  to  depart,  he  was  told 
that  several  sick  and  dying  persons  were 
wishing  to  see  him.  He  consented  to  put 
off  his  journey,  and  visited  them  all,  admin- 
istering the  last  sacrament  to  the  dying,  and 
carrying  holy  communion  to  the  sick.  He 
was  just  coming  out  of  a  cabin  where  he  had 
been  accomplishing  this  act  of  charity  when 
an  Indian  chief  threw  himself  upon  him,  and 
struck  him  with  a  hatchet.  At  the  same 
moment  M.  de  Cod&re,  who  was  hurrying  to 
his  assistance,  was  killed  by  a  gun-shot,  and 
the  savage  completed  the  murder.  During 
the  massacre  the  great  Sun,  or  chief,  of  the 
Natches  was  sitting  quietly  under  a  shed,  and 
the  heads  of  the  Frenchmen  were  brought 
to  him  and  laid  at  his  feet.  They  only  spared 
two  Frenchmen,  a  tailor  and  a  carpenter, 
whom  they  thought  might  be  of  use  to  them. 
They  killed  some  of  the  women,  but  the  most 
part  of  them  were  kept  as  slaves,  and  treated 
with  great  cruelty. 

"  The  news  of  the  massacres,  which  broke 
out  in  several  places  at  once,  was  carried  to 
New  Orleans  by  the  Pere  Dautrelean,  mis- 
sionary at  the  Illinois,  who  had  taken  advan- 
tage of  the  hunting  season,  when  the  Indians 
leave  their  villages  to  encamp  in  the  woods, 
to  go  to  New  Orleans  on  business.  He  wish- 
ed to  say  mass  at  Father  Scud's  mission,  not 
knowing  that  he  had  been  murdered  a  few 
days  before,  but,  finding  he  could  not  reach 
his  residence  till  twelve  o'clock,  he  <! 
mined  to  celebrate  the  Holy  Sacrifice  on  the 
banks  of  the  river.  A  number  of  savages 
joined  him  and  his  companions,  and  offered 
them  some  provisions.  When  mass  began 
they  placed  themselves  behind  the  French,  as 
if  wislung  to  assist  at  it  At  the  moment 
the  priest  was  saying  the  'Kyrie  Eleison' 
they  fired  upon  him,  and  wounded  him  in  the 
rid  it  arm.  Seeing  one  of  his  companions 
fall  dead  at  his  feet,  the  Father  knelt  down 
and  prepared  to  receive  his  death-blow.  But 
the  savages  having  fired  upon  him  two  or 
three  times  without  effect,  although  dose  to 
him,  it  struck  him  ho  might  yet  escape.  Still 


268 


APPENDIX. 


in  his  vestments,  and  carrying  the  chalice  and 
the  palena  in  his  hands,  he  rushed  towards 
the  boat.  The  two  other  Frenchmen  had 
already  reached  it,  and,  believing  him  to  be 
dead,  had  pulled  away  from  the  shore.  He 
threw  himself  into  the  water,  and  they  con- 
trived to  pull  him  into  the  boat.  Turning 
round  to  see  if  he  was  pursued,  he  received 
in  his  mouth  several  shots  from  the  gun  of 
an  Indian.  They  struck  chiefly  against  his 
teeth ;  some  of  them  entered  his  gums.  He 
undertook,  in  spite  of  his  wounded  arm,  to 
steer  the  boat;  and  his  two  companions — 
one  of  whom  had  the  thigh  shattered  with  a 
gun-shot — rowed  with  all  their  might.  The 
savages  pursued  them  for  an  hour,  firing  con- 
tinually upon  them,  but  without  effect.  The 
two  rowers  were  often  about  to  give  up,  but, 
encouraged  by  the  priest,  kept  on,  and  man- 
aged to  keep  the  Indians  at  bay  by  pointing 
towards  them  an  old  unloaded  fowling-piece 
which  had  been  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat.  When  they  came  near  the  Batches, 
not  knowing  what  had  happened  there,  they 
wished  to  land,  but  the  sight  of  ruined  and 
smoking  habitations  put  them  on  their  guard, 
and  they  pushed  farther  on,  though  well-nigh 
exhausted.  At  last  they  fell  in  with  a  de- 
tachment of  French  troops,  which  was  march- 
ing against  the  Natches.  The  surgeon  who 
was  with  them  dressed'  their  wounds,  and 
after  a  short  repose  they  went  on  to  New 
Orleans. 

"  On  January  2Y,  M.  le  Sueur,  a  French 
officer,  who,  on  hearing  of  the  massacre,  had 
been  recruiting  amongst  the  friendly  tribe  of 
the  Choctaws,  marched  with  700  men  of  that 
nation  to  the  Natches.  He  expected  to  have 
met  the  French  troops  there,  but  they  had 
not  yet  arrived,  and  he  could  not  restrain  the 
impetuosity  of  the  Choctaws.  They  charged 
the  enemy  with  such  impetuosity  that  they 
killed  eighty  men,  made  sixteen  women  pris- 
oners, and  delivered  from  captivity  fifty-one 
French  women,  the  two  men  the  Natches  had 
spared,  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  negroes  and 
negresses.  If  the  negroes  had  all  been  on 
the  side  of  the  French,  or  the  French  troops 
had  arrived,  the  Natches  would  have  met  the 
same  fate  then  as  awaited  them  at  a  later 
period." 


PART  II.    CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  the  court  of  this  young  monarch  (Louis 
XV.)  many  intrigues  were  carried  on.     Peo- 
ple wondered  that  a  king  of  twenty  years  of  I 
age  had  not  yet  given  his  heart  to  any  of  the 
titled  beauties  who  were  coveting  its  posses-j 
sion.     Such  was  the  spirit  which  the  regency  | 
bad  fostered,  and  a  regular  plot  was  formed 
to  seduce  Louis  XV.  from  his  allegiance  to 
his  queen.     His  courtiers  were  tired  of  the 
sight  of  his  conjugal  virtues,  and  of  his  devo- 
tion to  Marie  Leckzinska.     They  laughed  at 
his  constancy — they  used  every  art  to  con-j 
strain  him  to  be   unfaithful  to  her.     Forj 
some  time  the  king  resisted.     To  those  who 
spoke  to  him  in  praise  of  other  women  he 
used  to  say,  "  The  queen  is  to  my  mind  hand- 
somer ;  I  like  her  better  than  any  of  those 
women  who  flutter  about  me."    But  these 
perverse  efforts  were  unceasing;  the  court 
turned  the  young  couple  into  ridicule ;  the 
king  began  to  wonder  that  he  was  not  as 
profligate  as  those  about  him.     It  would 
have  required   a  very   strong   character  to 
stem  the  tide  of  that  dissolute  period  and 
that  corrupt  society.     When  the  queen  had 
had  five  children,  and  had  begun  to  lose  her 
youthful  bloom,  the  assaults  on  the  king's 
heart,  or  rather  his  fancy,  redoubled.     All 
the  young  lords  of  the  court,  from  the  Due 
de  Richelieu  to  the  Dukes  of  Eperaon  and 
Gesvres,  plotted  to  lead  him  into  vice ;  and 
before  long  the  young  Duchesse  de  Mailly 
assumed  the  position  at  the  French  Court 
which  Madame  de  Montespan  had  so  long 
held  in  the  preceding  reign.* 

PART  II.  CHAPTER  V. 
"As  I  have  mentioned  Pouponne,  I  must 
tell  you  we  are  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 
Athalie  is  going  to  be  acted  at  her  convent. 
She  is  to  act  the  part  of  the  queen,  and  we 
greatly  need  your  advice,  sir.  Just  fancy 
that  we  do  not  know  (that  is,  I  have  forgot- 
ten it)  how  Athalie  ought  to  be  dressed, 
when  she  must  stand  or  when  she  must  sit 
down,  when  she  must  be  in  a  passion  or 
when  she  must  play  the  hypocrite.  All  this 
puzzles  us  very  much.  Could  not  you,  hi  a 

*  Extract  from  the  history  of  Louis  XV.,  by 
Capefigue. 


APPENDIX. 


•JG9 


moment  of  leisure,  glance  over  the  tragedy 
d  mark  these  different  points  for  us  ?— you 
ould  do  me  a  great  favour. 
"  If  you  keep  your  promise  you  will  ar- 
-e  in  time  to  make  us  rehearse.  Pouponne 
_ines  in  the  sentimental  parts,  so  that  what 
e  does  hi  her  own  way,  out  of  her  own 
tie  head  and  taste,  is  a  hundred  times  bet- 
r  than  what  we  teach  her.  I  have  just 
tticed  this  in  the  scene  which  begins  *  Te 
jila  SeMucteur!'  I  was  not  aware  she 

mew  it,  and  she  repeats  it  better  than  any 
ing  else.  Simple  things  are  what  she  fails 
,  such  as  used  to  be  the  triumph  of  Mdlle. 
ecouvreur.  As  to  Pouponne,  she  likes  to 
orm  and  rave— she  is  a  little  Duelas." 

PART  IL     CHAPTER  V. 
MAURICE,  Comte  de  Saxe  and  Marshal  of 
Vance,  was  bora  in  Dresden  in  1696.     He 
ras  the  illegitimate  son  of  the  Elector  of 
jaxony  and  King  of  Poland,  Augustus  the 
Second,  and  the  Countess  de  Koenigsmark. 
Je  entered  the  army  at  twelve  years  of  age, 
earnt  the  art  of  war  under  Prince  Eugene, 
ind  was  present  at  the  siege  of  Belgrade, 
[e  entered  the  French  service  in  1720,  but 
loon  after  went  to  Courland,  where,  through 
he  protection  of  the  Dowager  Duchess  Anna 
vanovna,  he  was  elected  Duke;    but  the 
Jmpress  Catherine  the  First  would  not  recog- 
u/.e  his  election,  and  he  returned  to  France, 
whore  he  definitively  remained.     He  greatly 
distinguished  himself  in  the  campaigns  of 
1733,  '34,  and  '35.    He  became  a  Lieuten- 
jnt-General  in  1736,  covered  himself  with 
glory  in  the  war  of  the  Austrian  succession, 
•ook  Prague  and  Egra,  defended  Alsatia,  and 
was  named  Marshal  in  1743.     He  held  the 
allies  in  check  in  Flanders,  defeated  them  at 
Fontenoy,  took  Ath  and  Brussels,  won  two 
victories  at  Bocoux  and  Lanfeld,  and  played 
a  decisive  part  in  bringing  about  the  peace 
of  Aix-la-Chapelle  in  1748.    At  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  war  he  received  from  Louis  the 
Fifteenth  the  domain  of  Chambord  and  a 
revenue    of   40,000    francs.     The    bodily 
strength  of    this    Prince  was    astonishing. 


'  Madame  de  Slmlane's  letters,  to  M.  d'Herlcourt, 
She  was  Madame  de  86vlgn6's  granddaughter,  and 
Ponponne  was  her  grandchild. 


He  could  break  a  six-franc  piece  in  two  with 
his  fingers.* 

PART  H.    CHAPTER  VL 

Trantlation  of  a  note  in  the  Appendix  of 
Chateaubriand'*  tale,  "  The  Notch*." 

THE  banks  of  the  Ohio  are  peopled  with 
French  names  which  bear  witness  to  the 
ancient  glories  of  those  shores.  Indian  fami- 
lies boast  even  now  of  the  alliances  formed 
by  their  ancestors ;  and  proudly  bear  the  name 
of  Pont  Chartrain,  of  Yberville,  and  of  Tcr- 
monville. 

That  of  Maurepas  is  well  known  in  Indian 
annals,  but  no  gratitude  is  due  from  Ameri- 
cans to  the  memory  of  this  minister.  He  it 
was  who  ordered  the  sale  of  the  last  Natches. 
The  following  reflections  occur  hi  M.  Barb6 
Marboix's  History  of  Louisiana,  regarding 
this  inhuman  act  of  policy : 

In  the  course  of  the  wars  between  the 
French  and  the  inhabitants  of  Louisiana,  the 
conflict  with  the  Natches  produced  deplor- 
able consequences.    This  nation  was  reck- 
oned, before  the  French  conquest,  as  the 
most  peaceful  of  the  Indian  tribes.     But, 
irritated  by  the  tyrannical  proceedings  of  a 
French  commanding  officer,  it  carried  into 
effect  a  horrible  retaliation.    In  consequence, 
the  governor  of  the  colony  deemed  it  neces- 
sary to  make  a  striking  example  of  this  peo- 
ple, and  the  whole  tribe  was  exterminated, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  families  which 
escaped  the  general  massacre,  and  were  re- 
ceived and  harboured  by  the  neighbouring 
tribes.    From  time  immemorial  the  Natches 
had  been  governed  by  a  family  of  chiefe, 
whom  they  deemed  the  children  of  the  sun. 
M.  Perrier,  the  commander-in-chiof,  had  them 
all  transported  to  the  Cape  Francais.    The 
head  of  this  dynasty  died  there  soon  after- 
wards.    The  other  Suns  were  supported  for 
a  little  while,  in  a  miserable  manner,  at  the 
expense  of  the  Company.    When  the  syndics 
wrote  to  XL  de  Maurepas,  to  claim  indemni- 
fication for  this  outlay,  his  answer  was,  " 
do  not  see  what  can  be  done,  but  to  send 
back  what  remains  of  those  two  Indian  femi- 
lies  to  Louisiana,  or  to  sell  them  as  Blares." 


Dietiomulrtt  Untrcml,  Aa. 


270 


APPENDIX. 


The  archives  of  the  Company  contain  the 
following  resolution:  "It  has  been  decided 
after  mature  consideration,  to  sell  as  slaves 
the  remaining  members  of  royal  families  of 
the  Natches."  At  the  same  time  as  this 
order  was  given,  mention  was  made  of 
civilizing  the  nation  whose  chiefs  were  to  be 
sold  as  slaves ! 

Two  of  the  Natches  thus  doomed  to  sla- 
very were  sent  to  France.  One  of  them  had 
been  brought  up  as  an  attendant  on  the  altar 
of  the  Manitous,  and  had  saved  from  de- 
struction, when  the  idols  were  overthrown  in 
North  America,  a  young  serpent  which  he 
considered  as  a  fetish  or  charm.  He  kept  it 
in  a  bowl  and  carried  it  to  France  with  him, 
trusting  that  when  this  Mfinitou  acquired 
its  full  strength  it  would  deliver  him  from 
slavery. 

This  Natches  landed  at  Toulon  at  the 
time  when  the  famous  Mandrin  was  filling 
with  terror  the  southern  provinces  of  France. 
The  sailors  had  told  before  the  young  Natches 
wonderful  stories  of  this  smuggler's  exploits, 
and  he  became  persuaded  that  the  white  man 
who  so  marvellously  escaped  dangers,  must 
be  protected  by  invisible  agencies.  He 
ardently  desired  to  enrol  himself  amongst 
the  foUowers  of  this  invincible  chief.  Hav- 
ing contrived  to  escape,  he  wandered  about 
some  time  living  upon  alms.  After  many 
unsuccessful  efforts  he  succeeded  at  last  in 
falling  in  with  Rondart,  one  of  the  followers 
of  Mandrin  and  his  band.  The  young  sav- 
age told  the  story  of  his  country's  destruc- 
tion, and  said  the  Manitou  which  he  adored 
had  led  him  amongst  the  warriors  who  were 
the  object  of  his  admiration.  The  singular- 
ity of  these  circumstances  struck  Mandrin. 
He  saw  at  once  how  useful  the  fanaticism  of 
the  young  idolater  might  prove,  and  encour- 
aged him  in  his  belief.  He  was  given  the 
name  of  Lohie,  a  derivation  from  that  of 
Ohio. 

Accustomed  to  see  the  prisoners  made  in 
war  offered  up  in  sacrifice  to  his  gods,  the 
Natches  had  no  remorse  in  murdering  and 
pillaging,  and  ascribed  to  his  fetish  the  suc- 
cessful result  of  the  dangerous  expeditions  in 
which  he  was  ever  ready  to  join  with  super- 
stitious ardour. 

Mandrin's  band,  whilst  exploring  the  Fo- 


rez,  conceived  the  project  of  invading  the 
castle  of  the  High  Prevost.  A  bolder  enter- 
prise  could  not  have  been  conceived  or  pro- 
posed to  the  courage  of  the  Natches.  He 
accepted  with  joy  the  command  of  this  mid- 
night attack.  Foreseeing  the  perilous  nature 
of  the  attempt  he  resolved  to  carry  his  ser- 
pent with  him  in  his  breast,  feeling  certain 
to  triumph  through  its  influence. 

When  on  the  spot,  Lohie  dispersed  his 
band  for  the  attack,  and  before  giving  the 
signal,  opened  the  can  in  which  he  carried 
his  serpent,  in  order  to  invoke  it.  The 
venomous  creature  who  had  been  painfully 
compressed  in  a  narrow  space,  sprung  out 
and  fastened  on  the  savage's  throat.  Lohie 
could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  pain,  and  his  com- 
panions did  not  dare  to  touch  the  serpent  so 
as  to  disengage  him  from  its  hold.  The 
struggles  of  the  wretched  man  caused  his 
gun  to  go  off.  The  noise  it  made  gave  the 
alarm ;  Lohie's  troop  tried  to  fly,  but  the 
prevost's  guards,  surrounded  them  in  an 
instant,  and  soon  disarmed  them.  The  ser- 
pent's head  was  cut  off  with  a  sword,  but  the 
Natches  was  by  that  time  at  the  point  of 
death.  He  died  in  horrible  sufferings,  invok- 
ing the  idol  who  had  caused  his  death.  Such 
was  the  unhappy  end  of  one  of  the  North 
American  slaves. 

The  other  Indian,  born  in  the  same  region, 
and  brought  by  the  same  ship  to  the  shores 
of  France,  met  with  a  very  different  fate.  He 
belonged  to  the  race  which  claimed  descent 
from  the  sun.  When  he  left  his  native  land 
it  was  noticed  that  he  carried  a  crucifix  in 
his  bosom.  When  questioned  as  to  this  holy 
sign,  he  stated  that  it  had  been  given  to  him 
by  a  dying  sachem. 

Struck  with  the  peace  which  had,  attended 
the  last  moments  of  the  Indian  Christian, 
the  young  Natches  had  vowed  to  renounce 
the  worship  of  idols,  and  to  follow  the  reli- 
gion of  the  God  of  Truth.  The  genuine 
piety  which  breathed  in  his  touching  narra- 
tive induced  M.  Maret,  the  Prince  de  Conde's 
secretary,  to  deliver  him  from  slavery.  In- 
stead of  a  master  he  found  hi  him  a  protec- 
tor, who  naturalized  him  in  the  bosom  of  his 
new  country.  He  was  taken  to  Paris.  In 
the  midst  of  the  wonders  of  that  splendid 
city  it  struck  people  with  astonishment  to 


APPENDIX. 


271 


f^hear  the  young  savage  beg  to  be  conducted 
to  the  house  of  God  rather  than  to  the  bril- 
it  sights  which  met  hia  eyes.  This  wish 
expressed  at  a  great  assembly  which  had 

I  been  called  together  to  witness  the  introduc- 
tii in  of  a  native  of  the  Louisianian  forests 

[into  the  dazzling   atmosphere  of   Parisian 

^magnificence— into  a  world  altogether  new 
to  him.  M.  de  Caylus,  Bishop  of  Auxerre, 

[obtained  the  privilege  of  introducing  the 
Indian  into  the  Christian  temple,  and  of 

|  instructing  him  in  the  Christian  religion. 

It  was  in  the  church  of  St.  Severine  in 
Paris,  that  he  administered  the  rite  of  bap- 
tism to  the  young  savage.  The  procureur 

|  general  of  the  Parliament,  M.  Fleu  de  Henry, 

-was  his  godfather,  and  the  noble  Lady  de 

[Senac  d'Orgeville  his  godmother.  He  took 
the  name  of  Marie  Guillaume.  The  register 

I  of  his  baptism  still  exists  hi  the  archives  of 
the  Parliament  of  Paris.  During  the  cere- 
mony he  kept  his  head  bowed  down  on  the 

'sachem's  crucifix.  The  court  and  the  town 
crowded  to  see  the  North  American  convert. 
It  was  always  with  deep  emotion  that  he 
related  how  the  beauty  of  a  Christian  death- 
bed had  led  him  to  the  true  faith.  These 
facts  seem  almost  like  a  complement  of  the 
preceding  fictions.  Truth  is  thus  linked  with 
the  inspirations  of  a  writer  who  was  the  first 
to  throw  a  romantic  interest  on  the, history 
of  the  Natches.  M.  de  Chateaubriand  has 
endowed  this  people  with  the  prestige  which 
suffering  gives;  and  these  true  and  touch- 
ing episodes  might  form  a  sequel  to  his 
tale.* 


PART  II.    CHAPTER  VI 

Extract*  from.  "Mademoiselle  Gaultier's 
Conversion,  related  by  herself,  and  printed 
from  the  manuscript  written  by  her  own 
hand." 

THIS  narrative  has  been  published  in  a 
volume  of  the  Lives  of  French  Carmelite 
Nuns,  and  is  also  to  be  found  in  "  Pieces 
curieuses  pour  servir  a  la  Litt6rature  et  & 
1'Histoire,  par  De  la  Place."  Mdlle.  Gaultier 
was  a  celebrated  French  actress,  who,  after 

*  The  story  of  Rcn6  and  Atala,  and  the  history 
of  the  Natches. 


being  ten  years  on  the  stage,  retired  from  it 
and  the  world,  and  ended  by  entering  a  Car- 
melite convent,  the  same  where  Mdlle.  de  la 
VaUiere  had  taken  the  veil  in  the  previous 
century.  Mdlle.  Gaultier's  professional  la- 
bours at  the  Theatre  Fnu^ais  had  met  with 
success  and  brought  her  wealth,  and  she  lav- 
ishly indulged  in  all  that  wealth  can  procure. 
Nature  had  bestowed  upon  her  many  and 
various  gifts.  She  was  endowed  with  talents 
for  poetry  and  painting  as  well  as  acting.  Tall 
hi  stature,  commanding  in  appearance,  with 
a  brilliant  complexion  and  a  graceful  figure, 
she  made  herself  conspicuous  wherever  she 
went  by  a  display  of  the  less  feminine  arts 
of  riding  and  driving,  and  few  men  could 
boast  of  strength  equal  to  hers.  She  once 
challenged  the  Comte  de  Saxe  to  try  the 
power  of  his  wrists  against  her  own.  His 
strength  was  proverbial,  and  no  one  in 
Europe  had  ever  been  a  match  for  him  hi 
this  respect.  Nor  did  Mdlle.  Gaultier  come 
off  victorious  in  the  trial  she  had  invited,  but 
her  antagonist  acknowledged  he  had  never 
been  so  nearly  defeated.  She  was  able  to 
roll  a  silver  piece  in  her  hand  as  if  it  had 
been  a  wafer.  For  many  years  her  life  was 
notorious  for  its  irregularities,  and  many  were 
the  scandals  she  gave.  Her  mad  freaks  were 
the  subject  of  public  conversation ;  and  the 
following  anecdote  will  exemplify  the  tone  of 
her  mind  at  that  period. 

She  had  been  banished  from  the  court  of 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg  on  account 
of  the  insolence  with  which  she  had  treated 
a  lady  whose  influence  was  great  with  that 
sovereign.  But  no  sooner  had  she  arrived 
hi  Paris  than  she  resolved  not  to  submit 
tamely  to  the  insult  she  had  received,  but  to 
return  at  once  to  Stuttgard,  and  carry  out  her 
revenge.  Secreting  hersel  f  in  that  town  for  the 
purpose,  she  watched  her  opportunity.  Hav- 
ing ascertained  that  her  enemy  was  driving 
hi  an  open  carriage  on  the  public  promenade, 
she  ordered  a  pair  of  fiery  horses  to  be  har- 
nessed to  a  vehicle  she  had  previously  hired, 
and,  driving  as  usual  herself,  she  contrived 
to  run  against  her  rival's  equipage  and  to 
overset  it  No  sooner  was  this  done  than, 
leaving  the  object  of  her  enmity  prostrate  in 
the  mud,  she  jumped  into  a  post-chaise  which 
was  in  waiting,  and  was  on  her  way  to  Paris 


272 


APPENDIX. 


before  the  Grand  Duke  had  had  time  to  hear 
of  her  exploit 

With  reference  to  this  journey  she  writes, 
"  In  order  to  conceive  an  idea  of  what  the 
strength  and  impetuosity  of  my  passions  had 
been,  and  the  dangers  to  which  I  exposed 
myself  when  there  was  a  question  of  satisfy- 
ing them,  just  imagine  what  perils  a  girl  of 
twenty-two  must  have  run  travelling  alone  from 
Paris  to  the  kingdom  of  Wiirtemberg,  and 
from  thence  back  again  to  Paris — alone  with 
the  footman  and  the  postboy  who  drove  the 
carriage.  This  footman,  much  more  tired 
and  more  timid  than  his  mistress,  used  often 
to  come  to  the  door  of  the  chaise,  especially 
when  going  through  the  woods  of  Nancy  and 
St.  Menehould,  and  whisper  in  broken  ac- 
cents, '  Mademoiselle,  do  you  know  that  we 
are  hi  a  most  cut-throat  sort  of  a  place  ? ' 
I  only  laughed  and  said,  'Go  on ;  don't  be 
afraid.  You  follow  Caesar  and  his  fortunes.' " 

"  On  the  25th  of  April,  1722,  at  a  tune  when 
I  was  revelling  in  an  ocean  of  delights,  accord- 
ing to  the  world's  pernicious  way  of  thinking, 
and  enjoying  a  fatal  security  even  whilst  com- 
passed about  with  the  shades  of  death — I 
happened  one  morning  to  awake  between 
eight  and  nine  o'clock,  which  was  earlier 
than  was  usual  with  me.  I  remembered  that 
it  was  my  birthday,  and  rang  for  my  women. 
One  of  them  came  hurrying  to  my  bedside, 
supposing  that  I  had  been  taken  ill.  I 
desired  her  to  get  me  dressed,  as  I  intended 
to  go  to  mass.  She  told  me  that  it  was  not 
a  festival;  for  she  knew  that  it  was  only  on 
days  of  obligation  that  I  ever  thought  of  such 
a  thing,  and  then  not  always.  I  insisted, 
however,  and  she  assisted  me  to  dress.  I 
went  to  the  church  of  the  Franciscans,  fol- 
lowed only  by  my  footman,  and  taking  with 
me  a  little  motherless  boy  whom  I  had  adopt- 
ed. I  heard  the  first  part  of  Mass  without 
the  least  attention ;  but  about  the  tune  of 
the  Preface  an  interior  voice  seemed  to  say  to 
me,  'What  brings  you  to  the  foot  of  the 
altar  ?  Are  you  come  here  to  thank  God 
that  he  has  given  you  the  means  of  pleasing 
men  and  mortally  offending  him  every  day  ? ' 
The  thought  of  this  my  monstrous  ingratitude 
towards  the  Lord  overwhelmed  me  to  such  a 
degree  that  I  cannot  describe  it.  I  slipped 


off  the  chair  against  which  I  was  negh'gen 
leaning  and  fell  prostrate  on  the  pavement. 
When  Mass  was  ended  I  sent  home  my  foot- 
man and  the  orphan  boy,  and  remained  in 
church  in  a  state  of  inconceivable  agitation. 

"I  spent  six  months  in  this  way,  hearing 
Mass  every  morning  and  in  the  evening  going 
on  in  my  usual  manner.  At  last  I  bethought 
myself  to  the  words  of  the  Gospel,  '  No  man 
can  serve  two  masters,'  upon  which  I  made 
up  my  mind.  At  last  the  day  of  my  depar- 
ture arrived.  It  was  the  very  one  upon 
which  persons  dearest  to  me  in  the  world 
were  for  the  last  time  to  dine  at  my  house. 
But  dear  to  me  as  they  were,  my  salvation 
was  now  dearer  to  me  still.  What  I  suffered 
whilst  at  table  in  order  not  to  betray  my  feel- 
ings can  scarcely  be  conceived.  Nature  and 
grace  were  carrying  on  a  fearful  conflict  with-  • 
in  my  heart ;  especially  I  was  agitated  when 
some  one  said  to  me,  *  The  fare  you  give  us 
is  too  good  for  a  Wednesday  in  Passion 
Week ;'  and  then  they  all  exclaimed,  '  It  is 
because  she  is  taking  leave  of  us.'  Feeling 
myself  about  to  faint,  I  rose  from  table,  and 
said  I  was  obliged  to  go  out  on  account  of  a 
payment  which  I  had  given  my  word  to  make 
that  day.  Everybody  got  up  and^  accom- 
panied me  to  the  door.  I  entered  my  car- 
riage, and  the  guests  sat  down  again  to  din- 
ner. But  at  the  first  sign  of  starting  my 
anguish  grew  so  great  that  I  gave  a  piercing 
cry,  which  was  heard  in  the  dining-room,  and 
the  company  were  about  once  more  to  rush 
out  of  the  house.  In  the  mean  time  I  had 
left  the  carriage  and  shut  myself  up  in  a 
parlour  on  the  ground-floor.  My  attendants 
persuaded  the  guests  that  I  was  gone,  and 
that  it  was  the  cry  of  a  child  they  had  heard. 
I  then  took  courage,  and  drove  off  to  St. 
Sulpice,  where  my  confessor  was  awaiting 
me.  There,  though  greatly  agitated,  I  began 
my  confession.  After  an  interview  of  three 
hours,  my  confessor,  pitying  the  state  I  was 
in,  put  me  off  to  another  day.  I  returned  to 
my  house,  where  I  was  only  to  stay  four  days 
longer.  A  sense  of  intense  desolation  came 
over  me.  I  was  bewildered ;  I  trembled.  I 
asked  myself,  like  St.  Augustine,  '  Shall  you 
indeed  be  able  to  do  without  all  these  posses- 
sions, all  these  comforts  ?  without  all  these 
luxuries  and  pleasures  which  have  hitherto 


APPENDIX. 


273 


filled  you  with  delight  ?  Will  you  abandon 
this  little  palace  to  go  and  live  in  a  dismal 
cell  ?  Will  you  take  up  with  a  mode  of  life 
so  monotonous  and  so  obscure,  one  which 
you  have  hitherto  held  in  abhorrence,  and 
that  for  the  whole  remainder  of  your  ex- 
istence ? ' 

"But  I  got  over  those  terrible  moments. 
At  last  the  day  of  my  departure  arrived.  M. 
Sanguet,  my  cure,  had  for  a  long  time  kept 
out  of  my  way — I  had  so  often  turned  into 
ridicule  his  pious  exhortations.  But  when  I 
told  him  the  great  mercy  God  had  shown  me 
his  joy  was  great  I  passed  a  part  of  the 
night  in  writing  to  the  persons  with  whom  I 
had  professional  engagements,  and  to  the 
father  of  my  adopted  child,  to  whom  I  sent 
back  the  boy  with  a  sum  of  money.  I  left 
the  letters  with  orders  that  they  should  not 
be  sent  till  twelve  o'clock  at  noon ;  and  that 
whoever  asked  for  me  should  be  told  that  I 
was  gone  away  for  a  long  time.  Then  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  left  my  home, 
never  to  return  to  it  again.  But  I  was  not 
agitated  by  the  same  struggles  I  had  lately 
gone  through.  I  went  out  with  the  same 
tranquillity  with  which  I  now  leave  my  cell  to 
go  to  the  choir ;  just  sixteen  months  after 
that  first  Mass  at  the  Franciscan  church ! 
In  the  same  composed  state  of  mind  I  ar- 
rived at  Versailles,  and  waited  on  the  late 
Cardinal  de  Fleury  and  the  Due  de  Gesvres, 
who  had  been  my  constant  protectors,  and  of 
whom  I  now  took  leave.  From  their  apart- 
ments I  went  to  the  king's  chapel  to  hear 
Mass.  While  I  was  there  it  came  into  my 
mind  that  there  was  in  the  chateau  a  lady 
whom  I  had  grievously  offended ;  and  as  I 
came  out  of  the  chapel  I  hastened  to  her 
rooms  ;  but,  in  order  to  avoid  the  eclat  which 
the  first  burst  of  her  feelings  might  have 
given  rise  to,  I  sent  to  request  an  interview 
with  her  in  one  of  the  ground-floor  parlours, 
where  I  was  waiting.  As  soon  as  she  came 
in,  I  closed  the  door  and  threw  myself  at  her 
feet  The  suddenness  of  this  action  took 
from  her  the  power  of  speech.  Still  hi  the 
attitude  of  a  suppliant,  I  implored  her  to 
grant  me  a  generous  pardon.  I  told  her  that 
I  was  about  to  retire  from  the  world  to  do 
penance,  and  that  I  had  thought  ii  right  to 
by  fulfilling  the  most  difficult  of  the 
18 


Gospel  precepts.  This  lady,  who  had  been 
taken  quite  aback  at  first  by  the  suddenness 
of  my  appearance,  and  had  imagined  herself 
the  subject  of  an  illusion,  now  began  to 
recover  her  presence  of  mind,  and  said  to 
me  every  thing  most  harsh  which  a  woman 
cruelly  wounded  in  her  .feelings  might  be 
supposed  to  think  of.  After  listening  to  her 
some  time  without  making  any  reply,  always 
humbly  kneeling  at  her  feet,  I  said  that  I 
had  not  come  there  to  justify  myself,  but 
simply  to  implore  her  pardon ;  that  if  she 
granted  it,  I  should  go  away  happy  ;  that  if, 
on  the  contrary,  she  refused  it  to  me,  God 
would  be  satisfied  with  my  submission,  and 
not  with  her  refusal.  At  these  words  she 
held  out  her  hand,  desired  me  to  sit  down, 
and  we  were  reconciled. 

"  I  left  Versailles  without  taking  any  food. 
The  action  I  had  been  enabled  to  perform 
had  sufficiently  refreshed  me.  I  went  back 
to  Paris  to  the  community  of  St.  Perpetua, 
where  I  had  a  little  room  prepared  for  me,  in 
which  I  was  to  remain  until  the  inventory  of 
my  furniture  was  completed,  and  various 
other  arrangements  made. 

"As  I  entered  that  first  place  of  retreat, 
what  happened  visibly  to  St  Paul  seemed  in- 
visibly to  take  place  in  me.  Scales  fell  from 
my  eyes,  and  I  felt  as  if  transformed  into  a 
totally  new  creature.  Once  in  that  little 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  reached  heaven  1  The  past  seemed  to 
vanish  away.  My  house,  my  property,  my 
friends,  my  pleasures,  no  longer  dwelt  in  my 
thoughts.  The  tranquillity  and  interior  peace 
which  I  enjoyed  almost  led  me  to  feel  as  if 
my  life,  up  to  that  moment,  had  been  one 
long  unquiet  dream.  My  cousin,  whose  tears 
were  flowing  fast,  and  who  could  not  bear  to 
take  leave  of  me,  fearing  to  let  me  remain 
alone,  and  perhaps  to  find  me  dead  the  next 
morning,  could  not  understand  my  eager 
desire  to  send  her  away,  in  order  to  enjoy  at 
leisure  the  new  blessing  of  solitude.  I  told 
the  Superioress  that  I  had  taken  a  collation 
in  the  morning,  and  that  I  begged  she  would 
let  me  have  for  supper  what  had  been  Kit 
from  the  dinner  of  the  Community.  There 
was  some  stewed  carp,  which  I  ate  with  the 
greatest  appetite,  strange  to  Bay.  For  the 
preceding  three  months  I  had  not  been  able 


274 


APPENDIX. 


to  keep  any  food  on  my  stomach,  not  even  a 
little  broth.  Some  rice  with  gravy,  which  I 
had  taken  the  night  before  for  supper,  had 
made  me  sick  :  and  now  I  not  only  digested 
quite  well  this  warmed-up  bit  of  fish,  and  a 
few  walnuts  for  dessert,  but  I  slept  all  night 
as  soundly  as  a  child  of  eight  years  old ;  and 
this  has  been  the  case  ever  since. 

"  As  soon  as  my  retirement  became  known, 
various  reasons  were  assigned  for  it,  accord- 
ing to  the  temper  of  people's  minds.  The 
world  found  it  difficult  to  beh'eve  that,  in  the 
prime  of  life — I  was  thirty-one  years  of  age — 
and  in  the  full  tide  of  passion,  I  should  have 
taken,  of  my  own  free  choice,  a  decision  so 
utterly  at  variance  with  my  past  life.  My 
furniture  was  put  up  to  auction.  This  sale 
lasted  a  fortnight ;  during  which  tune  all  Paris 
came  to  convince  itself  of  the  reality  of  my 
disappearance ;  and  all  who  came  went  away 
touched  by  a  sense  of  the  great  mercy  God 
had  shown  me.  My  kinswoman,  who  had 
undertaken  the  charge  of  my  worldly  affairs, 
was  closely  questioned  as  to  my  place  of 
retreat.  Refusing  to  disclose  it,  she  was 
requested  to  convey  to  me  a  letter,  and 
greatly  entreated  not  to  fail  to  deliver  it 
into  my  hands.  This  proved  to  be  from  a 
friend,  who  exhorted  me  not  to  persist  in  a 
course  which  I  had  evidently  adopted  with- 
out sufficient  reflection,  particularly  consid- 
ering the  agreeable  position  I  occupied,  the 
difficulty  I  should  find  in  retracing  my  steps, 
and  the  inevitable  regrets  that  would  follow. 
Many  examples  were  adduced  abundantly 
calculated  to  frighten  me  from  my  resolution, 
and  to  shake  my  courage,  if  Almighty  God 
had  not  supported  me  by  His  grace.  As  it 
was,  it  is  easy  to  suppose  what  my  answer 
must  have  been. 

"Providence  had  hi  numerous  instances 
preserved  me  in  a  remarkable  manner  from 
accidents  to  which  I  was  every  day  exposing 
myself,  in  spite  of  the  wise  remonstrances  of 
persons  eminent  for  their  rank,  age,  and 
virtue.  When  they  inquired  if  I  approached 
the  Sacraments,  '0  dear,  no,'  I  used  to 
answer.  '  And  why  not  ? '  '  Why,  because 
I  do  not  choose  to  commit  a  sacrilege,  or  to 
give  up  my  pleasures  until  I  reach  the  age  of 
forty-five.'  'But  have  you  no  remorse?' 
'Not  I !  What  harm  do  I  do ?  I  do  not 


injure  any  one,  that  I  know  of.  As  to  a  fu- 
ture paradise,  I  leave  it  to  those  who  do  not 
know  how  to  enjoy  the  present.  I  am  satis- 
fied with  the  pleasures  this  world  affords,  and 
do  my  best  to  enjoy  them.'  Horrible  infat- 
uation !  fatal  blindness !  which  makes  me 
shudder  when  I  recall  it.  And  it  is  on  this 
sensual,  reckless  creature  that  the  Almighty 
has  vouchsafed  to  look  with  pity,  and  by  that 
powerful  glance  to  restore  her  to  herself. 
For  He  had  given  me,  at  the  outset,  a  soul 
capable  of  good,  an  "upright,  sincere,  and 
compassionate  heart,  well  inclined  towards 
virtue,  and  full  of  a  just  horror  of  disgraceful 
vices.  But,  as  I  said  before,  the  poverty  of 
my  family  had  caused  my  education  to  be 
neglected ;  and  young,  free  from  all  restraints, 
with  headlong  passions,  and  without  any 
means  of  support,  ruin  and  dishonour  were, 
as  it  were,  forced  upon  me.  God  knows  how 
much  suffering  it  cost  me  to  forego  virtue. 
He  knows  that  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  when 
I  was  in  Flanders,  I  promised  Him,  during  a 
severe  illness  I  had — and  most  sincerely  I 
promised  it — that  I  would  give  up  the  dan- 
gerous profession  I  was  engaged  in,  if  only  I 
could  secure  a  pension  of  200  francs.  It 
might  have  been  done.  It  ought  to  have 
been  done.  God  forgive  those  who  refused 
to  do  it.  Poverty  had  alone  in  the  first  in- 
stance thrust  me  into  the  land  of  perdition, 
for  none  of  my  relations  had  lived  in  any  but 
a  simple  and  Christian  manner  of  life,  except 
my  father,  who,  through  his  extravagance, 
reduced  me  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  with,  as 
I  have  been  told,  a  good  figure  and  a  comely 
face,  to  the  most  embarrassing  straits.  I 
had  a  horror  of  vice,  and,  consequently,  felt 
shocked  when  it  was  proposed  that  I  should 
go  upon  the  stage.  But  I  was  told  that  this 
was  a  prejudice  ,which  only  existed  now 
amongst  the  common  people  and  vulgar 
bigots  ;  that  the  court  and  the  town  were  of 
quite  another  way  of  thinking,  and  lacked 
very  favourably  upon  persons  who  exercised 
so  useful  and  so  agreeable  an  art.  Young 
people  are  easily  persuaded  ;  but  experience 
has  taught  me  how  inevitable  is  the  ruin  of 
those  who  choose  this  profession,  unless  they 
exercise  the  strictest  watch  over  themselves, 
and  guard  at  every  turn  against  the  dangers 
that  surround  them.  Only  consider  what  a 


APPENDIX. 


275 


life  it  is!  No  occupation  but  the  exercise 
of  the  memory ;  wealth,  luxuries,  amusemen 
of  every  sort !  The  last  three  years  that  I  was 
on  the  stage  brought  me  in,  free  from  al 
deductions,  forty  thousand  francs.  What  L 
temptation  for  those  who  think  of  nothing 
but  the  present  moment ;  and  what  a  miracle 
of  grace  it  is  that  withdraws  a  soul  from  so 
voluptuous  an  existence,  especially  one  hi  the 
prime  of  life,  and  with  passions  at  their 
height !  I  must  admit,  however,  that  I  have 
known  persons  in  that  line  whose  conduct 
was  as  irreproachable  as  their  talents  were 
remarkable;  but  I,  alas!  was  not  of  that 
number ;  I  own  it,  to  my  shame  and  to  the 
greater  glory  of  God,  whose  grace  is  all  the 
more  evident  in  my  conversion,  that  He  chose 
for  the  display  of  its  irresistible  power  the 
most  unworthy  of  subjects ;  and  I  have  to 
thank  Him  for  this  particular  grace  that  since 
the  day  I  abandoned  the  world  up  to  this 
moment,  I  have  never  regretted  its  enjoy- 
ments, in  spite  of  all  the  trials  I  have  had  to 
go  through ;  and  the  violent  efforts  I  had  to 
make  in  order  to  subdue  my  overweening 
sensibility,  which  so  reacted  on  my  constitu- 
tion that  my  hair  and  my  eyebrows  turned 
from  black  to  white  in  a  very  short  space  of 
time." 

The  Carmelite  nun  never  lost  those  bril- 
liant powers  of  conversation  for  which  the 
woman  of  the  world  had  been  famous.  Her 
language  remained  what  it  had  been,  clear, 
forcible,  graphic,  animated ;  but  whereas  her 
words  had  formerly  deluded  whilst  they 
fascinated  her  hearers,  now  they  lured  them 
to  the  love  of  God  and  the  practice  of  virtue. 
In  her  old  age  she  became  blind,  but  there 
was  no  darkness  on  her  spirit  even  then. 
She  went  about  her  duties  as  cheerfully  as 
ever.  She  suffered  no  one  to  help  her.  The 
energy  of  her  natural  character,  sanctified 
by  grace,  gave  her  the  will  and  the  power  to 
accomplish  to  the  last  every  obligation; 
whilst  the  tenderness  of  her  heart,  increasing 
with  her  years,  made  her  an  example  of  that 
charity  which  can  never  hear  of  suffering 
without  seeking  to  relieve  it. 

A  strange  circumstance  in  Scour  Augustine 
de  la  Mis6ricorde's  history  was  the  intercourse 
which  took  place  between  the  Queen  of  France 


and  herself  during  the  latter  part  of  her  life. 
She  had  a  nephew,  an  eminent  violin-player, 
who  directed  the  orchestra  of  the  Theatre 
Francais.  Deeply  impressed  with  a  sense  of 
the  dangers  of  any  employment  connected 
with  the  stage,  she  felt  very  anxious  to  with- 
draw him  from  its  influence,  and  wrote  to  the 
pious  queen  of  Louis  XV.  entreating  her  to 
admit  this  young  man  into  her  private  band; 
and  eloquently  dwelling  on  the  motives  which 
prompted  this  request  The  desire  in  itself 
was  sufficient  to  engage  the  queen's  sym- 
pathy,  and  she  readily  acceded  to  the  petition 
of  Soeur  Augustine.  The  manner  in  which 
she  expressed  her  thanks  so  charmed  her 
royal  correspondent,  that  an  interchange  of 
letters  of  a  religious  character  established 
itself  between  them. 

The  night  before  her  death,  which  took 
place  at  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites  at 
Lyons  in  the  year  1757,  the  nun  dictated  to 
the  Sister  who  was  sitting  up  with  her  eight 
lines  of  poetry  addressed  to  her  royal  friend, 
entreating  her  prayers,  and  commending  her- 
self to  her  compassionate  recollection. 

PAKT  H.    CHAPTER  X.  ' 

M.  DE  LA  BOURDONNAIS  was  governor-general 
of  the  Isles  de  France  and  Bourbon  in  the 
pear  1739.    He  had  every  thing  to  organize 
n  these  colonies.    The  administration   of 
justice,  the  observance  of  order,  commerce, 
and  industry ;  and  his  mode  of  government 
drew  down  blessings  upon  him.     In  the  war 
of  1743  between  France  and  England  he  went 
o  the  assistance  of  Dupleix,  Governor  of 
Pondicherry,  besieged  the  English  in  Madras, 
and  forced  them  to  capitulate.    Madras,  ac- 
cording to  the  terms  of  the  capitulation,  was 
o  be  restored  to  the  English  on  the  payment 
[>f  a  ransom.    Dupleix,  who  had  possession 
of  Madras,  refused  to  ratify  this  treaty,  and  a 
dispute  arose,  in  consequence,  between  him 
and  La  Bourdonnais,  which  proved  fatal  to  • 
he  latter.     Indignant  at  the  bail  fuith  of 
Dupleix,  he  left  Madras  and  returned  as  a 
private  individual    to  the  Isle  de  France, 
where  a  new  governor,  chosen  by  the  impe- 
rious Dupleix,  was  already  hi  authority.    La 
lourdonnais  came  back  to  France  in  1748 


276 


APPENDIX. 


to  answer  in  person  the  accusations  of  pow- 
erful enemies,  excited  by  his  persecutor.  He 
was  shut  up  in  the  Bastille,  where  he  remained 
several  years  without  being  able  to  get  even 


a  hearing  in  his  own  defence.    His  innocence    graphic. 


was  at  last  admitted,  and,  he  was  set  at  lib- 
erty in  1752,  but  he  was  utterly  ruined,  and 
died  in  1756,  after  along  and  painful  illness.* 
*  Dictionnaire  TJniversel  d'Histoire  et  de  Geo- 


THE     END. 


YB  73K>5 


